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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808754">A Smashing Summer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes'>mageicalwishes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Strangers to Lovers, Texting, fake exes, idiots to lovers, unnecessary amounts of swearing, very light angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:21:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>31,184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23808754</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm egging your house for a dare, but you're parent is a cop and now they're yelling at me, so I told them you were my ex and you wronged me, and now you're coming outside, so please just go along with this, I really don't want to go to jail" AU<br/>When Simon Snow agreed to egg some posho's house, he never thought he'd find himself here - The only thing standing between himself and a criminal charge, the word of a handsome stranger.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>80</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>312</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Strange Introduction</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Based off of this Tumblr post: <a href="https://mraculous.tumblr.com/post/148950146365/weve-all-heard-of-the-fake-dating-trope-but-have">Link text</a><br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Simon</b> </span>
</p>
<p>“Okay ... Dare,” I huff, my voice flat with boredom. “But I swear to God, if you guys make me eat any more vile shit, I’m leaving.”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright. Don’t have a hissy fit,” Josh mocks, holding his hands up in a false surrender. “We won’t make you eat anything else. Just lemme think.”</p>
<p>I wait, glancing between the two of them - Both of their faces knotted with concentration. If I’m honest, I’m not <em> entirely </em> sure why I agreed to play. I’ve always hated Truth or Dare. It’s juvenile, and boring, and it only ever leads to me embarrassing myself. But, with Penny and Agatha both on holiday, I don’t exactly have many other options. Unless I want to go downstairs and play Mario Kart with the younger kids - Which I <em> definitely </em> don’t (I always win. It gets pretty boring). </p>
<p>“Okay then,” Nathan says, a wicked grin breaking across his face.<em> God</em>. I’m going to regret picking dare, aren’t I? “I dare you to egg one of those posho houses on Church Lane.”</p>
<p>“Nathan. No,” I groan. “What if I get caught? I could be in serious trouble. Come on! The worst I made you do was steal a bloody biscuit. Egging somebody’s house is hardly the same!” </p>
<p>“Come on, Simon,” Josh drawls. “It’ll be a laugh. Don’t be a chicken.” </p>
<p>I roll my eyes, throwing my head back in frustration. </p>
<p>“<em>Christ. Fine. </em> But you two are coming with me. There is no way I’m going alone.” </p>
<p>“Sure thing. We’ll be right with you - Don’t you worry,” Josh assures, his voice dripping with mischief. </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>I regret every single decision that has led me here - Trudging down some posh twat’s drive, egg carton in hand, with my <em> idiot </em> friends hidden behind a tree a few metres back. I mean, what kind of <em> imbecile </em> agrees to egging a strangers house, just because of a stupid dare. Well, apparently me. But I am <em> definitely </em> regretting it now. This was an undoubtedly terrible idea. </p>
<p>My eyes scan the area nervously, checking for signs of life. There are no cars parked out front, and none of the windows are open (Even though it’s a stupidly hot day) - So, I figure I’m in the clear. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I come to a stop a few metres in front of the house’s porch. Although, thinking about it, it’s not really a house at all - It’s a bloody ginormous, gothic <em> mansion</em>. It’s <em>incredibly</em> intimidating. I mean, it’s got gargoyles and everything, for Christ’s sake! Looking at it up close, I can hardly believe that somebody <em> actually </em> lives here - It's probably some musty, old vampire or something. I swallow anxiously, trying to push that thought to the back of my mind. Not the vampire thing, obviously. I know vampires aren’t real - I’m not scared of that. But, I <em> am </em> scared of whoever <em>does</em> own the property. What are they gonna do when they realise that their <em> precious </em> mansion (Which probably cost them, like, a billion pounds) has been egged. I’d be livid. </p>
<p>Do houses like these have CCTV? Probably. <em> Fuck</em>. Is it illegal to egg someone’s house? Also probably. But it’s <em> definitely </em> illegal to trespass. Although, I don’t know if standing in somebody’s driveway really counts. But if it does, and they <em>do</em> have CCTV, then they’ve already caught me doing that. I really should’ve worn some sort of mask (Even <em>if </em>Josh and Nathan laughed at me) - But, it’s a little late for that now. So, <em>Screw it.</em> I’m already here. And, I’m probably already on tape. So, I may as well do what I came here to do. At least it’ll get Josh and Nathan off of my back. </p>
<p>Hesitantly, I open the carton and pick up an egg. Pulling my hand behind my head, I steal a quick glance backwards to ensure that I haven’t been ditched, and launch it straight into the heavy oak of the front door. A laugh bubbles up inside me, adrenaline surging within my chest. I’m probably a <em>terrible</em> person for finding something that is most-likely an actual, legitimate <em>crime</em> fun - But, the scandal of it all is providing me with an intoxicating rush.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Grinning, I load the final egg into my hand, hurling it towards the front door carelessly. A mere millisecond later, the door swings open, revealing a red-faced, white-haired man, all dressed up in a posh suit. <em>Oh fuck</em>. Powerless to stop the imminent disaster, I watch, horrified, as the egg smashes against his brow bone, splattering yolk across his face. <em>Shit. Shit. Shit.</em> </p>
<p>“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” He yells, his voice booming. </p>
<p>Petrified, I let out a high-pitched, girlish squeal - Dropping the empty carton on to the floor. I’m completely frozen - My muscles seizing up uselessly, as I stand gawping at him. I whip my head around, watching as Josh and Nathan dash away, leaving me trapped, all alone. Desperately, I turn to run, be he claps a hand around my wrist - Pulling me back into place. <em> Mega fuck.</em> Panicked, I shake my arm wildly, desperately trying to loosen his vice-like grip. </p>
<p>“Do you know who I am?” he shouts, the veins in his neck bulging. Unable to find my voice, I shake my head. “I’m the Chief Constable!” <em>Mega, mega fuck. </em><em>Of course</em>, I'd be stupid enough to pick a cop's house. I've <em>really</em> fucked it up this time. “And this,” he continues, gesturing vaguely behind him. “Is vandalism!”</p>
<p>I gulp, trying to shake myself free again, to no avail. He scowls, grabbing onto my shoulder, and tightening his grip further (My wrist will probably be bruised tomorrow, although that’s the least of my worries right now).</p>
<p>“I’m really, really sorry, Mister,” I whimper, my voice wavering pathetically. “This is a <em>huge </em>misunderstanding. I’ll fix it - I swear. Please just - Please don’t arrest me.” </p>
<p>His jawline tenses as he grits his teeth. “Pray tell me, how <em>this </em> is a '<em>misunderstanding </em>',” he spits. </p>
<p>“Uhhh,” I stall, completely stumped. I definitely shouldn’t have said that. How the hell can <em> egging </em> somebody’s house be a misunderstanding? I dart my eyes around, desperately hoping to spot something that can help me out. And that's when I see him.  A tall boy, roughly my own age, leaning against the door-frame nonchalantly, his arms crossed against his chest, and an amused smirk plastered on his face. “My ex lives here,” I sputter out. <em> Stupid moron</em>. Why the <em> fuck </em> would I say <em>that?</em>  The boy raises an eyebrow, flashing me a quick toothy grin. “Really shitty breakup, yeah,” I ramble on. “Sent me loads of rude notes, wouldn’t give me back my stuff, kept threatening to spill my secrets. You know how it is.”</p>
<p>The man shakes his head, clearly taken aback. “What on earth are you blathering on about, boy? There is no girl your age living here.”</p>
<p>I chuckle sheepishly, looking down at my trainers, my face flushing with heat. Right, Yeah - I didn't really think that one through. </p>
<p>“It’s alright, Father,” A deep, velvety voice interjects. “He’s one of mine.” </p>
<p>I risk glancing upwards. The boy from the doorway is standing beside us now - His grey eyes assessing me coldly. I meet his gaze, furrowing my brow in question. What <em> is </em> he on about? His lips quirk upwards into a knowing smirk, as he runs a hand through his hair (It’s fairly long for a bloke, just brushing the tops of his shoulders. But, unlike mine, it looks really silky - So, I understand why he wouldn’t want to cut it). </p>
<p>“Basilton,” the man whispers, his tone warning. “I’m <em>not</em> in the mood for your games. Just look at what he did!” </p>
<p>“It’s no game, Father,” the boy (Basilton) replies, airily. “I left him a particularly scathing voicemail the other day. You know how I can be. I believe ... I likened him to a Neanderthal, actually - Which, as you can see, was clearly an astute judgement. It must've got him all riled up.”</p>
<p>“Either way - That does <em>not </em> excuse the vandalism of <em>our home, </em>Basilton.”</p>
<p>“I know,” he breathes. “I’m not <em> saying </em> that it does. Just … Let me handle it. I shattered the poor little lout’s heart - He just wanted a little bit of revenge, that’s all. It's a harmless prank. There is really no need for all this <em>drama</em>. You’re <em> being </em> excessive, Father. Getting <em>so</em> riled up over a petty, little crime is unbecoming of a man of your status, you know.”</p>
<p>I can practically see the tension vibrating between them - The man’s face flushing a violent shade of red. I don’t think it’s embarrassment, though - I think it’s rage. And, to be fair to him, I think that’s understandable. Basilton is <em> awfully </em> cheeky - Adopting a daringly condescending tone. He sounded like he was chastising a toddler, not speaking to his <em>Father</em>.</p>
<p>For a moment, I think there is going to be a scrap, but, to my shock, it actually bloody works! Reluctantly, the man pulls his hands back, finally freeing me from his grasp. I puff out a relieved breath. Thank God for Basilton! </p>
<p>“I will deal with <em>you </em> later,” he hisses, jabbing a finger into the centre of the boy’s chest. “But if you <em> insist </em> on bringing people like <em> that </em> into our lives, then it’s only fair that <em> you </em>be the one to clean up their messes.” </p>
<p>“Perfectly fine with me, Father,” he deadpans. </p>
<p>And, with that, he turns - Storming over to the door, and slamming it closed behind himself. Leaving me and my merciful stranger alone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Thank you so, so, so much,” I gasp out, turning to face him properly. “I am <em> so </em> sorry. My mates dared me to do it, and I’m a <em> complete idiot, </em> so I agreed. I don’t really know why. And I’m just - I’m just <em>so </em> sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin things between you and your Dad. And, I’ll clean it up, I swear! And … I’ll make it up to you. I mean - I don’t know how. But, I will.” </p>
<p>“Stop bumbling,” he says, gazing down at his nails, bored. “We can agree on the fact that you’re <em> clearly </em> a moron. But, don’t fret about ruining 'things' me and my Father - That was done <em> long </em> before you arrived. Just … Clean up the mess and we can forget that this ever happened.” </p>
<p>“Right. Okay,” I say, wearily. “But I mean, seriously <em> thank you</em>. For going along with my lie, I mean. Sorry if it - I mean like, sorry if it made you uncomfortable. Or you - You know, felt like you had to. Cause I mean … You didn’t have to”</p>
<p>“Don’t mention it - It’s perfectly fine. It didn’t make me uncomfortable, and I’m <em> well </em> aware that I didn’t <em> have </em> to do anything. I actually rather enjoyed the opportunity to rile my Father up - So, no need to apologise.”</p>
<p>“Right, well … Brilliant,” I say, smiling up at him. “You’re the best, Basilton.”</p>
<p>His face twists into a grimace. “<em>Don’t </em> call me that.”</p>
<p>“Oh shit, Sorry,” I mumble, embarrassed. “I thought that’s what your Dad said.” </p>
<p>“It is. I just … Don’t really like being called that,” he murmurs. </p>
<p>“<em>Oh </em>. Well. Um. What should I call you then?”</p>
<p>“Well <em> you </em> shouldn’t really call me <em> anything.</em> You’re the guy that just egged my house - <em>Not</em> my friend.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. I know that. But, I mean - Can’t you just say, anyway?”</p>
<p>“Fine,” he sighs, exasperated. “If you <em>insist.</em> Just call me Baz.”</p>
<p>“Baz,” I echo, the smile audible in my voice. “I like it. It suits you.” </p>
<p>“Hmmm,” he hums, noncommittally. “I’ll be sure to tell my Father you said so. I’m sure he will appreciate your approval.” </p>
<p>“I’m Simon Snow,” I say, ignoring his remark, and sticking my hand out towards him. “And, I promise, I don’t normally vandalise people’s houses. I’m good. I’ve never even got a detention, Honest. Well no, I mean, I got one in Year Seven - But it wasn’t <em>my</em> fault.”</p>
<p>Unimpressed, he glances down at my hand as if it were a personal affront. For a brief moment, I think he’s going to leave me hanging (Which would be totally mortifying. I’ve already made enough of a tit of myself, I don't need him to reject me as well), but then he reaches out, gingerly taking my hand in his, and giving it a curt shake. </p>
<p>“Charmed,” he deadpans. “Now that all the pleasantries are over, I really think you should get a move on with the whole <em>cleaning</em> thing. I won’t be able to hold Father off forever, you know.”</p>
<p>“Oh right, yeah. Course. I’ll get right on it. Uh … I don’t really have any … Cleaning stuff, though. Sorry. Do you have, like, a bucket or something?”</p>
<p>He glares down at me. “You’re a disaster,” he sighs, rubbing his hands against his temple exaggeratedly. “Vera probably has what you need. Let me go and ask.”</p>
<p>“Okay sure. Brilliant. Thanks,” I chirp. I have no idea who Vera is, but I don’t think Baz would like me asking, so I keep my mouth shut.</p>
<p>“Wait here,” he says, his voice threatening. “If you run away, I will be <em>very </em> angry. I know your name now, Simon Snow. If it comes to it, I <em>can</em> and <em> will </em> hunt you down. So <em>stay put.</em>”</p>
<p>“Aye Aye, Captain,” I tease. He tries to suppress it, but a small, half-smile breaks across his face. It only lasts a second, Baz quickly schooling his face back into a scowl, but it’s enough to calm the anxiety flurrying within my chest slightly. “I won’t move a muscle, promise.” </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span class="u"> <b>Baz</b> </span>
</p>
<p>Snow looks nervous. He’s bouncing his leg anxiously, his face curled into an adorable little pout, and a hand tugging at his unkempt curls roughly. </p>
<p>“What’s wrong with you?” I tease, placing the bucket down besides his scuffed trainers. </p>
<p>“Baz!” He breathes. “I have to go. I’m so, so sorry.” </p>
<p>“What? No!” I protest, outraged. “You <em>said </em> you’d clean it up. That was the <em>whole </em> agreement. I go along with your little hair-brained scheme, and <em>lower</em> myself to fulfilling the role of your ex-boyfriend, and <em>you </em> clean up the mess you made!”</p>
<p>“I know, I know. And I will, I swear! Cross my heart,” he says, tracing an 'X' against his breast. “But, I <em> have </em> to be home by eight.”</p>
<p>“Eight? Really, Snow? How old are you?” </p>
<p>“Uh ... Seventeen. Why?” </p>
<p>“You’re <em> seventeen years old</em>, and your parents <em>still</em> won’t let you out after <em>eight</em><em>?</em>” I ask, disbelieving. </p>
<p>“Uh yeah. Well, sort of.”</p>
<p>“Why? What happens if you miss your curfew? Do mummy and daddy not read you your bedtime story?” I goad, puffing my lips out into a faux, sympathetic pout. “I’m sorry, but you <em>have</em> to clean this mess up.” </p>
<p>“I know. But I just … I’m already late. And I seriously <em> can’t </em> be late. Look,” he says, digging around in his back pockets, and pulling out a crumpled receipt. “Uh … Do you have a pen?” </p>
<p>I roll my eyes, pulling out a fountain pen, and thrusting it towards him. </p>
<p>“Thanks,” he mumbles, flashing me a quick smile, and scribbling onto the paper. “Here. This is my number,” he says, holding the receipt out to me. “I’ll be back <em> first </em> thing tomorrow to clean it. I promise. If I don’t show up, you can just keep calling me till I do. Or … You’ve got my name, too - I’m sure that’s more than enough information to take a hit out on me.” </p>
<p>“Hmmm,” I hum, unimpressed, snatching the paper from his hand. “Be here eight A.M <em> sharp. </em>Capishe?” </p>
<p>“Uh yeah … Capishe?” He drones, clearly confused. </p>
<p>“Very well then. Run on back home. I’d <em> hate </em> for you to get into any trouble.”</p>
<p>“Okay. Yeah. Uh ... Cheers” he huffs. “You’re the best, Baz. I’ll make this up to you, I swear!”</p>
<p>“Whatever,” I chide, keeping my tone flat. </p>
<p>“Later then, Lover,” he calls. </p>
<p>“<em>Don’t </em> call me that,” I spit, aggressively. </p>
<p>“Okay. Okay,” He chuckles, warm laughter transforming his face - His eyes crinkling up slightly, as a small dimple pops besides his lips. “Later, <em> Ex</em>-Lover, then. That better?” </p>
<p>“I think you know that it’s not,” I groan, shaking my head. “Just get out of here. Before I change my mind!” </p>
<p>With a beaming grin, he turns, jogging down the driveway and back out onto the street - Leaving me alone. I glance down at the receipt - His number scratched onto the paper in barely intelligible handwriting, and a small, crude smiley face drawn next to it.<em> Bloody nightmare </em> . Despite myself, I chuckle lightly at the absurdity of it all. <em> Simon Snow </em> … What the hell have I gotten myself into? </p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>This Summer has ticked by <em> unbearably </em> slowly. At first it was fun -  A welcome change from the monotony of term time. But the novelty quickly wore off. Every day is the same - I wake up, I read, I play FIFA with Dev, I study, I eat, and I play with Mordelia. That’s it. Same old, same old. But <em>today </em> - Today was <em> far </em> from usual. As pathetic as it may be, it was probably the most fun I’ve had in weeks.</p>
<p>Which is why, I find myself <em>here</em> - Sat on the end of my bed, phone in hand, deliberating with myself over whether or not to text him. <em>My calamitous little criminal.</em></p>
<p>I mean, he <em> did </em> give me his number. I doubt he'd be surprised to hear from me. I could message him under the guise of confirming that he hadn't given me a fake one. That would be believable … <em>Surely?</em> I inhale deeply, regaining my composure. It’s just a silly, inconsequential text - Nothing to get worked up about. If he doesn’t answer - So what? It’ll make no difference to my life. </p>
<p>With my mind made up, I hammer out my message quickly - Hitting send before I have the opportunity to change my mind. </p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:42): </em> </b> <em> Committed any crimes since we last spoke? </em></p>
<p>I stare down at the screen, anxious. This is definitely weird. Why did I think this was a good idea? What sort of person decides to have a friendly chat with the guy that egged their house, for Christ’s sake? Father would be bitterly disappointed, if he knew. </p>
<p>Just as I’m starting to spiral, my phone screen flashes up with a reply. And then another. And then another. And then another. It’s him - It has to be him. Nobody I else know texts like such a lunatic (I'd have blocked their number <em>ages</em> ago if they did). </p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:43): </em> </b> <em> Nah. Not yet.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:43):</em> </b> <em> Maybe l8r.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:43):</em> </b> <em> And again … Sorry bout that.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:43): </em> </b> <em> And thnx for covering for me. That was really nice of you :)  </em></p>
<p>I grin, relieved. </p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:45):</em> </b> <em> Yes, well. While I appreciate your gratitude, if you don’t show up tomorrow there will be hell to pay.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:45):</em> </b> <em> And do you really have to type like that?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:46):</em> </b> <em> Aha yep :D That’s how everyone texts. Not my fault.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:46):</em> </b> <em> And I know. I know.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:46):</em> </b> <em> Trust me. I’ll be there.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:46):</em> </b> <em> You can count on me :)  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:47):</em> </b> <em> Whatever you say, Snow.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:47):</em> </b> <em> Yeh :)  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:51):</em> </b> <em> I have a question for you. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:52):</em> </b> <em> Oh yeh, really? Shoot.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:53):</em> </b> <em> I was having a little look at the receipt you gave me, and I was just wondering why on earth ONE PERSON would need to purchase SEVEN packets of scones, all in one go? Is one of your friends getting out of juvie, or something? Having a little party? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:54):</em> </b> <em> Oh nah lol.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:54):</em> </b> <em> Those are for me.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:54):</em> </b> <em> Whenever I get given my pocket money I always go and get a few packs.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:54):</em> </b> <em> They’re delicious. Trust.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:54):</em> </b> <em> I’ll bring you one tomorrow :)  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (21:55):</em> </b> <em> Right, I see. Fair enough, I suppose.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (21:55):</em> </b> <em> Aha yeh :)  </em></p>
<p>I pause, unsure of how to reply. I guess, I could ask him what he’s doing - Although, that would probably be a little strange. It’s almost certainly best to just leave it. I’ll see him tomorrow, anyway - I’d rather not embarrass myself before then. </p>
<p>But, just as I’m about to put my phone down, it buzzes again. </p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:01):</em> </b> <em> What’s ur full name?  </em></p>
<p>I furrow my brow in confusion.</p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:03):</em> </b> <em> Why? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:03):</em> </b> <em> Cause I wanna add you as a contact.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:03):</em> </b> <em> And my phone wants a surname.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:04):</em> </b> <em> And also I’m just curious.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:04):</em> </b> <em> Based on “Basilton” it’s probs well posh!  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:04):</em> </b> <em> I bet your name is double-barreled. You seem like a double-barreled kinda guy.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:05):</em> </b> <em> Come onnnnnnnn Baz. Spill. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:05): </em> </b> <em> I wanna knowwwww. Plz.  </em></p>
<p>
  <em> <strong>SS (22:06):</strong> You know mine. It's only fair! </em>
</p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:07): </em> </b> <em> Don’t ignore meeeeeeeeee. Plzzzzz.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:09):</em> </b> <em> You’re an imbecile.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:09):</em> </b> <em> Ahaha. Whatever you say.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:09):</em> </b> <em> Seriously, tho. What’s your name? </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:10):</em> </b> <em> Will telling you shut you up?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:10):</em> </b> <em> Oh yeh. For sure.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:11):</em> </b> <em> For a bit anyways ;)  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:12):</em> </b> <em> Fine.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:12):</em> </b> <em> My full name is Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. Happy now?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:13):</em> </b> <em> HOLY SHIT! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:13):</em> </b> <em> Yep! I’m very happy now!  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:13):</em> </b> <em> I knew it would be posh.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:13):</em> </b> <em> Haha that’s wicked.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:14):</em> </b> <em> Tyrannus. Really? Like the dinosaur?  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:14): </em> </b> <em> I’ve never even HEARD of that! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:14): </em> </b> <em> No, Snow. Not like the dinosaur. My parents aren’t morons.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:15):</em> </b> <em> Oh lol. Fairs.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:15):</em> </b> <em> Speaking of your parents, your dad is well scary! I thought I was gonna have a heart attack earlier. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:17):</em> </b> <em> I’m aware. I grew up with him.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:17):</em> </b> <em> Anyway, I thought you said if I told you, you’d shut up for a bit. You don’t appear to have shut up at all.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:18): </em> </b> <em> Oh yeh lol. Sorry.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:18):</em> </b> <em> I just got excited.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:18):</em> </b> <em> Your name is wicked tho! Seriously.   </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:18):</em> </b> <em> Whatever you say.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19): </em> </b> <em> Aha yeh.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19):</em> </b> <em> Anyways … Imma head off to bed now. No more talking from me!  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19):</em> </b> <em> Lucky you! </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19):</em> </b> <em> Early start tomorrow!  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19):</em> </b> <em> Cleaning some posho’s house.  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:19):</em> </b> <em> Lol. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:20): </em> </b> <em> G’night Baz. </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:20):</em> </b> <em> See you tomorrow :)  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>ME (22:20):</em> </b> <em> Good night, Snow. See you then. Don’t be late!  </em></p>
<p><b> <em>SS (22:21):</em> </b> <em> Wouldn’t dream of it ;)  </em></p>
<p>With that, I shift -  Putting my phone on to charge, and laying myself down onto the bed. Helplessly charmed, I find myself smiling up towards the velvet canopy of my bed goofily (Despite my best efforts to suppress it). </p>
<p>Tomorrow is going to be a good day. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, I hope you enjoyed :) Thank you for reading!<br/>My Tumblr: <a href="https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/">Link text</a><br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Friendly Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Just to avoid confusion - In this chapter Simon refers to Brockenhurst which, in this context, is referring to Brockenhurst College.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>“Who is it?” Baz calls, pulling the door ajar. </p><p>“Uh … <em> Me?”</em> I answer, my voice creeping with uncertainty. “You told me to be here at eight sharp. So … here I am?”</p><p>“If I told you to be here at eight sharp, then you’re three minutes late. But, I highly doubt that I did - I don’t know anybody called 'Me', and I <em> don’t </em>invite strangers over.”</p><p>“Come on, Baz,” I whine. “Don’t be a prat! You <em> know </em> who it is. It’s <em> me </em> … <em> Simon! </em>”</p><p>He stalls, and for a moment I think his shenanigans are over - But then, he’s pushing the door closed, the latch clicking into place loudly. “Nope, sorry,” he sings, pushing open the letterbox so I can hear him properly. “Doesn’t ring any bells,” </p><p>Peeved, I hammer my fist against the door.</p><p>“Baz! <em>Come on! </em> It’s <em>me! Simon. Simon Snow !” </em></p><p>I pause, awaiting another snide response. But, all I’m met with is silence. I’m pretty sure he’s still there, though. I don’t think that he’d actually leave me like that. I mean ... I know that I egged his house, but dragging me all the way out here, <em> just </em> to slam the door in my face, would be a bit harsh. Baz may be slightly prickly, but he’s not actually <em> mean </em>  (Well … I don’t think so, anyway). </p><p>“Seriously, Baz! You know me! It’s <em> Simon Snow</em>,” I continue. “You know … The egg guy?”</p><p>The door swings open suddenly, revealing him to me - Leaning against the door, a wicked grin spread across his face. </p><p>“Oh, of course! <em> You should have just said so! </em> ... How <em> is </em> my favourite juvenile delinquent doing?” </p><p>“Twat,” I grumble, unimpressed. “I’m <em> not </em> a juvenile delinquent.”</p><p>He laughs, bright and effusive. </p><p>“I know, I know. I’m just winding you up - Don’t worry,” he smiles, stepping aside to allow me in. “Come on in. Father is at work, so you don’t have to worry about him jumping you.”<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>If the outside of Baz’s house was intimidating, the inside is positively terrifying - All dark wood, and gilded, antique furniture. It’s a bit gaudy, to be honest - More of a show of wealth than a home. But, it’s still far nicer than anything I’ve ever had, so I can’t really criticise. </p><p>“Stop gawping, Snow,” He scolds. “You look ridiculous.” </p><p>“Sorry,” I drone, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “I'm just not used to creepy, Gothic mansions. You know …  <em> Most </em> people <em> avoid </em> the 'Dracula’s lair' aesthetic. It’s <em> terribly </em> outdated.”</p><p>“Shut up, you dolt,” he snickers, the tip of his nose scrunching up slightly. “It’s not even Gothic. It’s <em> Victorian </em>.” </p><p>“Whatever! Just … Is there a tap I can use? I should probably get on with it. I brought a bucket … And some soap. I just need some water.” </p><p>He smirks, raising an elegant brow in question. </p><p>He has nice eyebrows - Dark, and sharply arched. Not a hair out of place. He must wax them, or something - Because there’s <em> no way </em> they could be <em>that </em> perfect naturally. </p><p>“You’re not very observant are you, Snow?” He asks, amused. </p><p>“<em>Huh</em><em>?</em> What are you on about?” </p><p>“The <em>door,”</em> He drawls - Acting as though that clarifies his meaning perfectly (Which it definitely doesn't). “The one you knocked, like, five minutes ago?” </p><p>Lost, I stare at him blankly, throwing my hands out in question - Helplessly confused. </p><p>He sighs, rolling his eyes upwards, exaggeratedly.</p><p><em>"Seriously? </em> You didn’t notice the lack of Egg?” </p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>“<em>What? </em>” I bark, outraged. “Who cleaned it off?” </p><p>He shrugs, nonchalantly. “I did. <em>Obviously.” </em></p><p>“What?” I repeat, my voice absurdly small. “I <em> told </em> you <em> I’d </em> do it. Did you not believe me? I <em> told you,</em> you could trust me - I wouldn’t <em>lie.”</em> </p><p>I don’t really know <em>why</em> I’m protesting. I mean, it’s not like I really <em> wanted </em> to spend my Saturday scrubbing away dried Egg. He’s done me a favour really - Although, it certainly doesn’t <em> feel </em>that way. </p><p>“No, it’s not that. I <em> knew </em> you’d come back,” he reassures, his tone sincere. “But, Father wasn’t exactly chuffed about waiting until today - Apparently dried eggs are incredibly difficult to remove. So … I cleaned it up last night. There’s no need for you to have a meltdown, though. It wasn’t a problem.” </p><p>“But … I was <em> supposed </em> to make it up to you,” I murmur, picking at the sleeve of my hoodie. </p><p>“I know. It’s <em>okay,</em> though. Seriously. I’m <em> really </em> not that bothered.”</p><p>I tug a hand through my curls in frustration (I should probably stop doing that, to be honest. Penny says I’ll end up bald otherwise. But … Old habits are hard to break).</p><p>“When?” </p><p>“When, what?” He asks, clearly confused. </p><p>“When did you clean it up? Like - What time?” </p><p>He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know. Maybe … Nine-ish? Why does <em> that </em> matter?” </p><p>“If you did it at nine - Why didn’t you just tell me when we were texting, then?” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p><em> Oh. Shit. </em> How the <em>hell </em> am I supposed to reasonably explain <em>that? </em></p><p><em> ‘Oh, sorry. My life is just so irreparably dull that you’re the most exciting thing to happen to me all Summer. So, I just really wanted to see you again - Even without the valid excuse of making you clean up the mess you made‘ </em> - Yeah, because that’s not <em>at all</em> creepy. </p><p>I shrug, coolly - Building up a facade of indifference. “It must’ve slipped my mind.” </p><p>“Oh,” he mumbles. “That makes sense.” </p><p>“Yeah,” I breathe, unsure of what else to say. </p><p>Could I invite him to stay? Or would that be too much? I mean, he didn’t come here to <em> ‘hang out’ - </em> He <em> came </em> here under the pretence of scrubbing the bloody egg off of our front door. He'd probably just be freaked out if I did. </p><p>Nervously, I trace the pad of my thumb against my ring (I hardly take it off, nowadays. It was my mother’s, once. A simple, silver band. Elegant - Just like she used to be). </p><p>Luckily for me, before I have to face the humiliation of speaking, Snow is stammering out another sentence. </p><p>“Well … We could, you know. I mean, hang out or something? I <em> did </em> say I’d make it up to you. So ... We could go to the cinema, or something? I have money in my bag.” </p><p>“Sure. I suppose I don’t really have anything better to do.” I quip, suppressing a smile. </p><p>“Wicked,” he says, beaming up at me, his blue eyes shining. </p><p>“I have to get changed first though.”</p><p>“What? Why? What’s wrong with that?” He questions, gesturing towards my chest. </p><p>“These are my tennis whites, Snow,” I deadpan. “I’m not going into town dressed like this. I’m not an animal.”</p><p>He guffaws loudly, clutching onto his stomach. “But … It’s just a <em> polo and shorts! </em>There’s <em>nothing</em> wrong with that.”</p><p>“There definitely is.”</p><p>“You’re so <em> weird, </em>” he laughs, poking my arm lightly. </p><p>“Sure.<em> I’m </em>the weird one,” I mock. “Just follow me, okay? I’ll get changed in the en-suite. And, you can just wait in my room. It won’t take long.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>Baz’s room is certainly<em> striking </em>.</p><p>It’s as gaudily overdone as the entrance hall - With the same dark walls, and unnecessarily ornate furniture (I mean, he’s got a proper, curtained four-poster bed, for Christ’s sakes!). But, <em> his </em> room has <em> way </em> more personality - Every flat surface littered with papers and well-worn books, and an assortment of silver photo frames lining the top of his dresser.</p><p>“Hey, Baz?” I call, sliding my hands over the silk of his bed sheets, absentmindedly. “Can you hear me?”</p><p>“Obviously,” He rumbles. “I’m only on the other side of a door.” </p><p>“Oh right, yeah. Cool … Can I ask you something?” </p><p>“I suppose so,” he sighs (Although, I’m pretty sure he’s not actually annoyed). “But, I reserve the right to refuse to answer, if it’s a stupid question.”</p><p>“It’s not stupid! I was only going to ask how old you are?” </p><p>“Wow. You’re right - That’s <em> not </em> stupid ... However, it <em> is </em> exceedingly boring.” He jeers. </p><p>“Don’t be a dick!” I growl. “Just answer the question”</p><p>“Seventeen. I’m in Lower Sixth."</p><p>“Oh nice, same.”</p><p>“Yes- I know. You said yesterday.”</p><p>“Oh yeah ... When’s your birthday?” </p><p><em>"Seriously? Why?</em> Are you going to buy me a present?” </p><p>“Yes, seriously!” I cry, lobbing a pillow at the door.</p><p>He yelps, surprised. And, I can’t help the splutter of laughter that erupts out of me. </p><p>“Jesus Christ! There's no need to throw a tantrum. It’s in February. The twenty-fourth, if you want to be exact about it.”</p><p>“Fair enough. You’re older than me, then. Mine’s the twenty-first of June.”</p><p>“Oh well,” he purrs. “I’ll be sure to send you a card next year.”</p><p>“Oh wow. That's <em>very</em> generous of you,” I sneer, pulling my backpack open, and grabbing my packet of scones. “Imma put a scone on your bedside cabinet, okay? It’s for you to try later on." </p><p>He doesn’t answer, so I just assume he’s alright with it.</p><p>“Baz!” I whine, flopping down against his bed. “I <em> thought </em> you said you were just getting changed. How long does it take to change your bloody top!”</p><p>He tuts loudly, clearly underwhelmed by my level of patience.</p><p>“Just wait, you Git. I’ll be out in a minute. You know what they say, Snow … You can’t rush perfection.” </p><p> </p><p>He <em> definitely </em>takes longer than a minute, but soon enough the bathroom lock clicks, and he’s stepping back into the room.</p><p>I sit up quickly, desperately trying to scrape the scone crumbs off of his bedding. And then, I freeze - Utterly dumbfounded by the sight of him.<em> Oh no.  </em></p><p>“What’s wrong with you? Never seen proper clothing before?” He taunts, the smirk audible in his voice. </p><p>I stare at him, wordlessly - Slack-jawed and wide-eyed. I probably look slightly insane, but I’m powerless to stop myself. He looks ... <em>Otherworldly. </em></p><p>His hair has been pulled back into a loose bun - A few strands left hanging free, expertly framing the sharp edges of his face. His polo has been swapped out for a boxy, white shirt - Adorned with embroidered bumblebees, and only partially buttoned. The deep V of the neckline, exposing the bronze expanse of his chest - Teasing me with a view of the alluring groove of his collarbone. The shorts, too, have been upgraded. White polyester having been replaced by tight, black denim. And, as if all of <em>that </em> wasn’t enough, his nails have been painted a deep shade of maroon.</p><p>He’s a vision. Tall, dark, and handsome - The<em> perfect </em> cliche. </p><p>“What,” he asks again insistently, his voice weak with insecurity. “Seriously? Is - Is it too much, or something?”</p><p>He stomps over to the mirror, staring at his reflection blankly, and tugging at the bottom of his shirt. </p><p>“No!,” I snap, perhaps a little too urgently. “No. It’s fine. I mean - It’s good. You look good. I was just - I was just admiring your shirt. It’s nice. Proper fancy, like.”</p><p>“Right,” he drawls, his eyebrows drawn in suspicion. “Well … You shouldn’t stare at people. It’s rude.” </p><p>I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly, my face flooding with heat. </p><p>“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sorry about that.” </p><p>“Yes. Well … Come on then, Snow. Enough gawking! We haven’t got all day, you know”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>The drive to the cinema is <em> painfully </em> awkward - The two of us sitting side-by-side in complete silence. I flick on the radio, attempting to alleviate the crushing weight of the quiet that hangs between us. It doesn’t really work, though. </p><p>He’s definitely sulking. Although, I don’t know whether it’s because of all the weirdness in my bedroom, or because I refused to walk into town. I will admit that, he didn’t seem <em> all </em> that thrilled with my justification that you can’t risk breaking into a sweat when you’re wearing a six-hundred pound Gucci shirt - Just grumbling on about how I was a "High-maintenance, twat". </p><p>
  
</p><p>He quickly cheers up when we reach the cinema’s kiosk, though - Dashing about scooping sweets into his Pick-And-Mix bag, and beaming over at me as he orders the largest carton of popcorn available. </p><p>“Sweet tooth, Snow?” I tease. </p><p>“Uh huh. Definitely … Do you want anything? I brought enough money for the both of us.”</p><p>“Maybe just some Revels,” I shrug. </p><p>“Oh God! Yuck! You’re one of those people,” he complains, grimacing. “Gonna be honest with you Baz, I don't think we can be friends anymore.”</p><p>“Oh, piss off,” I scoff. “What’s wrong with Revels?”</p><p>“Everything but the Malteasers and Minstrels is what is wrong with bloody Revels! The rest of the flavours are just <em>offensive.</em> I mean, what kind of <em> psychopath </em> wants to eat Coffee and Orange Cream … And don’t even get me started on the fucking Raisins!”</p><p>“Uh, I believe <em>I'm</em> the kind of 'psychopath' you're referring to” I snap, swatting at him, jokingly. “They’re sublime! Your palette is clearly just too unrefined to appreciate them.” </p><p>He coughs out a mirthless laugh.</p><p>“Whatever. Enjoy your shitty chocolates, Loser. Don’t say I didn’t try to save you from your own poor choices!” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>“Are you seeing this, Snow? How fucking <em>inconsiderate</em> is she?” he hisses, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. “I mean, <em> why </em> come to the cinema, if all you want to do is sit on bloody Snapchat? Literally, what is the point?”</p><p>I huff out a quiet laugh, glancing over at him - His brow creased, and his lips pushed into a grumpy pout.</p><p>“It’s only the adverts, Baz. Chill. I’m sure she’ll turn it off when the movie starts.”</p><p>‘Well, that’s not really good enough. The adverts are a <em> key </em> part of the cinema experience! I <em> really </em> don’t see why they should be <em>ruined,</em> just because she wants to send some <em>useless</em> selfie.” </p><p>“You stress too much,” I whisper, shrugging as I shovel a fistful of popcorn into my mouth. “It ain't so bad.” </p><p>He snarls over at me, shoving a hand against my shoulder. “That is <em> vile! </em>Don't talk with your mouth full, Idiot. Seriously - Who <em> raised </em> you? Did they teach you <em> nothing </em> about manners?” </p><p>I don’t answer. Choosing instead, to make a show of chewing with my mouth open, in retaliation - Earning myself an icy glare. </p><p>“Barbarian,” he gruffs. </p><p> </p><p>When the lights dim further, I beam over at him, excitedly.</p><p>To my surprise, he’s already looking over at me - His signature eyebrow raise in place, but a soft, shy smile dancing across his lips. Caught, he quickly averts his gaze, shuffling in his seat nervously. </p><p>“It’s time!” I murmur, pushing my leg out slightly, and pressing our knees together. </p><p>“I know. I <em> have </em> been to the cinema before.” </p><p>“Whatever,” I snipe. “I just hope you don’t get <em> too </em> scared. Living in a haunted mansion, I imagine this may hit uncomfortably close to home, for you”</p><p>“Hmmm. <em>Somehow, </em>I think I’ll manage …  I’m a big boy, you know.”</p><p>“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, <em>Tyrannus,"</em> I tease, drawing out each letter of his name. </p><p>He bashes his knee against mine, forcefully - Clearly unimpressed with my little joke. </p><p>“Don’t worry though,” I continue. “If you <em> do </em> get too scared, you can always cuddle up to me. I’ll keep you safe.” </p><p>‘Just shut it, Snow,” he sighs, rubbing a hand against his brow bone in frustration. “I <em> will </em> hurt you if need be.” </p><p>I muffle a giggle with my hand, but I oblige - Biting my tongue, and turning my attention back to the movie screen. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Squinting against the bright lights, we step outside the screen room - The disorienting feeling of being plunged back into reality, making my head whirl uncomfortably. </p><p>“Did you like it?” I ask, chucking my rubbish into the bin as I talk. </p><p>“Yeah,” he murmurs, blinking his eyes stupidly. “Yeah. It was good. Thank you for the ticket - And the invite, of course. You’ll be glad to know that you can now consider your debt to me, repaid.” </p><p>I chuckle halfheartedly, bitterly disappointed.</p><p>If I'm being honest, I don’t really <em> want </em> my debt to be repaid - It’s the only reason I was allowed to hang out with him, in the first place. I suppose I could just egg his house again - Although, I doubt he would be as lenient with me the second time around. </p><p>Dissatisfied, I decide to try and drag the day out as much as possible (It’s only midday, so I have <em> ages </em> until I need to get back). </p><p>“I’m starving!” I complain, clutching at my stomach dramatically. “Are you hungry?</p><p>“I could eat,” he shrugs, smirking amusedly. </p><p>“Perfect! I know a <em> great </em> pizza place. It’s only like … Five minutes away.”</p><p>“Go on then, Snow. Lead the way.”</p><p>Grinning over at him, I grab his hand, weaving our fingers together unthinkingly. His are slimmer than mine, long and elegant where mine are short and stubby, but we fit together perfectly - The feel of his palm pressed against mine, causing my stomach to flip strangely.</p><p>When I realise what I’ve done, I pause - Loosening my grip on his hand, so that he can drop it if he wants. But, to my delight, he doesn’t - Instead opting to give it a light squeeze. </p><p>“Carry on, then” he drawls, his voice flat with boredom (Although, his cheeks are dusted a light shade of red, so I think he’s just putting it on to be a prat). “There’s really no reason to stand here all day.”</p><p>And with that, I start to walk - Bounding off towards the diner, pulling him along behind me. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>I scowl down at the plate, completely off-put.</p><p>“This looks foul, Snow. It’s practically <em> soaked </em>in oil! You don’t <em> actually </em> expect me to eat that, do you?” </p><p>He swallows showily, gulping down his bite of pizza. </p><p>“Come on, Baz,” he whines, tilting his head to the side pleadingly. “Don’t be a snob! I know it looks a little gross, but it's <em>really</em> delicious. <em>Trust me.</em> Just have a bite - It won’t kill you!”</p><p>Hesitantly, I raise a slice up to my lips, and take a minuscule bite. When the flavour hits me, I groan embarrassingly - Unable to control myself.</p><p>As much as I hate to admit it, he was right - It’s <em> infuriatingly </em> delicious. </p><p>“Aha!” he yells, sticking out his hand, and jabbing a finger at my face. “I <em> told you! </em> Isn’t it <em>so</em> great?” </p><p>“Alright, alright,” I chuckle. “There's no need to make a scene. I will admit that it’s fairly pleasant - As far as pizzas go, anyway”</p><p>“Nah. Piss off. It’s great, and you know it!”</p><p>I quirk my brow, swatting his hand away from my face. </p><p>“Me and the boys come here after college sometimes,” he continues, biting into the pizza sloppily. “I know the owner, and everything. Sometimes he gives me free wedges … It’s a pretty sweet deal.”</p><p>“I see. And who are these <em>boys,</em> you speak of?” I laugh. </p><p>“Josh and Nathan. We all go to Brockenhurst, but we live together too, so we’re pretty close. We’re practically brothers at this point!”</p><p>“Oh nice. Do you have your own flat or something?” I ask, confused. </p><p>“Oh no. Not yet, anyway. We will do it soon. But, right now, we’re living in a kid’s home. Murdoch House? I don’t know if you know it.”</p><p><em> Shit. </em> I’m such <em>a</em> <em> twat. </em></p><p>“No. I don’t,” I sigh, twisting my hands together, ashamed. “I’m sorry, though. I didn’t realise. Some of the stuff I’ve said … If I’d have known, I wouldn’t have. I mean, if I touched a nerve or anything, I really am <em> sincerely </em> sorry. I’d never mean to actually hurt you - I just like taunting people. It’s my way.” </p><p>“Baz,” he chortles, the sides of his eyes scrunching up sweetly. “There’s no need to get all serious, you Numpty. It’s okay, I know you wouldn’t. It’s chill, seriously. I've lived in homes my whole life, so I’m not really bothered. Not anymore, anyway. It’s just - People tend to go all awkward when I tell them, so I try not to bring it up”. </p><p>I puff out a breath, relieved. </p><p>“Okay. Well, good. Thank you for telling me, though. And, don’t worry, I won’t <em>'go all awkward'</em> on you. That would be below me.”</p><p>He hums, smiling across at me, his cheeks stuffed with pizza. He looks like a hamster - And <em>really,</em> it should look ridiculous, but somehow, on him, it’s stupidly endearing. </p><p>“Do you like it there, though?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t really know much about living in care - Only what I saw on Tracy Beaker as a kid. And, I’m not sure that’s exactly the most accurate account.”</p><p>“Not far off, to be honest,” he shrugs. “It’s mostly good. I mean, the kids are alright. And the staff at this place are nice - You can tell they like, <em> properly </em> care, you know? The rules are kind of strict, though - Which is annoying. And the food is <em> abysmal </em> … That’s probably the worst thing about it, to be honest . They’re pretty underfunded, so they have to just bulk buy the cheapest shit they can find … Leads to some <em> interesting </em> culinary creations.” </p><p>I shake my head in disbelief. </p><p>“Of course <em> that’s </em> what you care about, you absolute disaster!” </p><p>“What?” He calls, outraged. “I’m a growing boy, Baz - I need sustenance! Delicious, well-seasoned sustenance.”</p><p>“You’ll have to come over to mine for dinner sometime, then,” I smile. “My step-mother is a pretty amazing cook - So, I’m sure she could make something you'd enjoy. We’ll have to wait until Father is away, though. I doubt he’d appreciate me inviting the <em> hooligan </em>that egged his house over for dinner.”</p><p>“Seriously?” He asks, his tone achingly hopeful. </p><p>“Yeah. Why not?” I answer, schooling my voice into an indifferent drone. “My family are <em>convinced </em>that I have no friends besides my cousin and his mate, so it would be satisfying to prove them wrong.” </p><p>“Oh well, cool,” he mumbles, his freckled cheeks flushing a light rose. “I’d like that.” </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>We stayed, sat together in that grotty little diner for hours after that (Right up until Snow’s phone started blaring out an alarm - Signalling the approach of his of <em>measly</em> eight P.M curfew). We didn’t really talk about anything important - Mostly sticking to inane chatter about school and football. But, that hardly matters. It was still good. It was so, so good. </p><p> </p><p>I lean against the Jag’s bonnet, starting over at him silently. </p><p>“Well,” He sighs, kicking his foot against the pavement childishly. “I suppose this is a good night then?”</p><p>“I suppose so,” I mumble, desperately trying to prevent the disappointment welling up within my chest from seeping into my voice. “It's probably best to avoid triggering a search party.” </p><p>“Yeah - But … You’ll text me, yeah? I mean, I’ll text you, obviously. But you will answer won’t you?” </p><p>“Of course.” I answer plainly. “You know where I live, remember? Ignoring you is meaningless - You could just stalk me into submission.” </p><p>“Oh <em>haha. Very funny,</em> Dickhead,” He groans. “But seriously … I’ll hold you to that.” </p><p>“I hope you do, Snow,” I say, simpering meekly. </p><p>“Oh don’t you worry, Pitch. I will.”</p><p>With that, he flashes me a soft smile, waving me goodbye, before turning and trudging down the driveway. “Make sure your phone’s volume is up! I’d hate for you to miss my <em>fantastic</em> texts!” He calls, pulling the gate closed  behind him with an ear-aching screech. And then, he’s gone. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23:47): </b>Tonight was fun :) We should hang out again soon </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> ME (23:47): </b>Definitely.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23:48): </b>Aha yes! </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23:48): </b> You’re paying next time tho.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> ME (23:49): </b> If you insist, Snow.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23:50): </b> I defo do!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>SS (23:50):</strong> Oh, also ... Speaking of insisting  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>SS (23:50):</strong> You should call me Simon. You don't have to keep referring to me by my surname, you know? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>SS (23:50):</strong> I call you Baz. So, I reckon it's only fair!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> ME (23:5</b><strong>2): </strong>'ll consider it, Snow. I make no promises, though!</em>
</p><p>
  <em><b>SS (2</b><strong>3:52): </strong>You're well mean! :(((((((</em>
</p><p>
  <em> <b>SS (2</b><strong>3:52): </strong>Imma make you call me Simon one day! Whether you like it or not! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong>ME (23:53):</strong> I'd love to see you try. Pitches are not easily swayed!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <b>SS (2</b><strong>3:54): </strong>Pftttt! Whatever!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong><b>SS (2</b>3:54): </strong>Say what you like - I'm still gonna get you to call me it!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong><b>SS (2</b>3:54): </strong>I've got a plan! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> <strong><b>SS (2</b>3:55): </strong>And it's defo going to work! </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b>SS (23:55): </b> I gtg to bed now tho. My phone’s gonna get confiscated if I keep this up. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23: 55): </b> So ... G’night Baz. I'll talk to you tomorrow :)  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> SS (23:55): </b> Don’t let the ghosties get you!  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><b> ME (23:56): </b> You’re ridiculous.  </em>
</p><p><b> <em>ME (23:56):</em> </b> <em> Goodnight, Snow. Talk to you then.   </em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p><em> <strong>ME (1:19):</strong> Good Morning, Snow.  </em> <em> I know you're asleep right now, but I thought that you'd like to know that I ate the scone you left me. You were absolutely right ... It was delicious. So, thank you for leaving me one - With your insatiable appetite, I can only imagine how difficult that must've been for you.  </em></p><p><strong> <em>ME (1:20): </em> </strong> <em> You'll definitely need to bring me some more, at some point. I'll make more concrete plans with you at a more reasonable hour, though. </em><em>I seriously need to sleep.  </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As always, I hope you enjoyed :) Thank you for reading!<br/>My Tumblr: <a href="https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/">Link text</a><br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Getting To Know You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Only posted yesterday, but I'm far too excited to sit on this chapter ... So here we are! I hope you enjoy :)<br/>The next update should be coming in about 3 days time.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span> <span class="u"></span></p><p>I slide down against the sofa, pulling my phone out of my pocket, with a smile. </p><p><b> <em>ME (19:57):</em> </b> <em> Hey, hey, hey, Bazaroo! </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (19:57):</em> </b> <em> I’m super glad you liked the scones! They’re my absolute faveee </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (19:57):</em> </b> <em> I’ll bring enough to share next time :)  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (19:58):</em> </b> <em> How are you today?  </em></p><p>To my delight, my phone buzzes with a response, almost immediately. </p><p><b> <em>BP (19:58):</em> </b> <em> If you ever call me that again, I will block your number. I’m not even joking.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (19:58):</em> </b> <em> And, I’m pretty good, thanks. Yourself?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (19:59):</em> </b> <em> Aw :( Imma just have to keep trying different names till I find one you like, then :p  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (19:59):</em> </b> <em> I’m great! Had a pretty good day today :)  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:00):</em> </b> <em> Sorry I didn’t message earlier btw - It’s been a busy day! Me and the lads went into town and played some footie, and then I had to do some dumb history essay (Idk who told my history teacher she could set homework in the holidays, but I wanna fight them!) </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:00):</em> </b> <em> I fucking despise the Tudors. I mean, why the fuck would I care about socio-economic policies from like a million years ago! Grrrr! </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:01):</em> </b> <em> No worries, Snow. I understand.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:01):</em> </b> <em> That is unfortunate - But, you got lucky with the Tudors, to be honest. I’d rather that, than the bloody Industrial Revolution. That is mind-numbingly dull!  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:02):</em> </b> <em> But, I hate to break it to you - If you think the Tudor dynasty was a million years ago, then maybe you should reconsider your subject choice. You’ll definitely fail the A-level, if that’s your level of understanding.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:03):</em> </b> <em> Aha trueee. Sucks to be you :p  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:03):</em> </b> <em> And stfu!! I know it wasn’t actually a million years ago, you tosser! I was BEING dramatic - You should've realised, you know ALL about that, Mr. Roll-your-eyes-every-two-fucking-seconds.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:04):</em> </b> <em> I’m unconvinced.  </em></p><p>
  
</p><p>Stupidly, I scoff aloud - Drawing Nathan’s attention away from the television and over to me. He stands, trudging over, and plopping down onto the sofa besides me. </p><p>I groan, frustrated.</p><p>“What do you want?” </p><p>“Nothing. Nothing … Just wondering who you’re texting,” he drawls, the mocking amusement clear in his tone. “Got yourself a new girlfriend, or something?” </p><p>“No! I’m just talking to Penny,” I defend, my voice rising suspiciously. <em> Fuck. </em> I’m such a crap liar. </p><p>“You know, I know you’re lying, right?”</p><p>“Obviously,” I drone. “Just … Butt out of it, though, yeah? Please.” </p><p>“Alright, alright” he laughs, throwing his hands up in a mock surrender. “I’ll leave you be. But, if you wanna keep your little buddy a secret - I’d advise against laughing at their messages in the bloody common room, you divvy.”</p><p>“Noted,” I sigh, turning towards the door. “Don’t tell Josh though, yeah?”</p><p>“Sure, Simon. If that’s what you want, your secret is safe with me.” </p><p>“Cheers, mate.” I smile. “You’re the best.” </p><p>“I know, I know. I’m amazing. Just go and text them, you mug!” <span class="u"></span></p><p> </p><p>I do (Obviously). Quickly jogging upstairs, and locking myself in the bathroom - Where I’m safely hidden from prying eyes. Laying myself down in the bathtub, I hammer out a reply, sending it off Baz immediately. </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:13):</em> </b> <em> Whatever, dickhead!!  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:13):</em> </b> <em> Also soz I didn’t answer. Nathan was being nosy lol.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:13):</em> </b> <em> Anyway … You been up to much today?  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>Just as I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t be receiving a response, my phone buzzes loudly against my bedside table - My chest swelling pathetically, as I reach out and grab it. </p><p>Typing out a response, I find myself smiling - Unbridled joy melting away my impassive neutrality. </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:14):</em> </b> <em> No worries, Snow. It’s not as though I’m just sitting here, desperately awaiting your every response. I do have a life outside of you, you know. </em></p><p>That's not exactly true ... But, he doesn’t need to know that. </p><p><b><em>ME (20:14): </em></b><em>And, no, not really.</em> <em>I’ve mostly just been reading. I did try to teach Mordelia how to play chess, though - Which was fairly disastrous. </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:15): </em> </b> <em> Lol! Sounds good :)  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:15): </em> </b> <em> Who is Mordelia, though? </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:15):</em> </b> <em> Is that your girlfriend?  </em></p><p>I stare at my phone, blankly - Trying to formulate a response. </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:17): </em> </b> <em> Seriously?  </em></p><p>Barely a second after I've send it, my phone starts buzzing furiously - Message after message, pouring in. </p><p><b> <em>SS (20:17): </em> </b> <em> What?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:17): </em> </b> <em> That’s a perfectly valid question!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:17): </em> </b> <em> You haven’t mentioned anyone called Mordelia, I swear to God!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:18): </em> </b> <em> I’d remember, for sure. </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:18): </em> </b> <em> It’s not exactly a common name </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:19): </em> </b> <em> I know that, Snow. I was referring to the girlfriend question!  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:19): </em> </b> <em> I thought that we had already established that, a girlfriend isn’t exactly on the cards for me - Given the whole fake ex-boyfriend situation.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:20): </em> </b> <em> Bi people exist, you moron!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:20): </em> </b> <em> I’m Bi. Lol.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:20): </em> </b> <em> I didn’t wanna assume you were only into guys … Or that you were even really into them at all.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:21): </em> </b> <em> You totally could’ve been Bi! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:21): </em> </b> <em> Or straight! The whole ex-boyfriend thing was a lie, remember? - You could’ve just been a straight bro, pretending to be into dudes, to help me out.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:22): </em> </b> <em> It aint a dumb question, really. So … Don’t be annoying!! </em></p><p>
  <em> Oh. Okay.  </em>
</p><p>Newly nervous, I begin typing out my response - Ensuring that I sound perfectly unphased.  </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:22): </em> </b> <em> Christ, Snow! You seriously have to stop sending so many texts in a row. My phone is going to have a meltdown, if you keep it up.  </em></p><p>Hesitating slightly, I continue. </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:23): </em> </b> <em> But, you’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it to sound as though Gay and Straight were the only options. I could’ve been Bi … Or Straight, I suppose. But, to clarify - I’m definitely not. I’m gay.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:24): </em> </b> <em> I guess that - Where I’ve known since I was eleven, and I stopped trying to hide it a while ago now, I sort of forget that it isn’t immediately apparent to everybody else. Everyone in my Family knows. Everyone at College, too. So, I just, sort of, forget that I can still be perceived as anything other than what I actually am.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:26):</em> </b> <em> Hush you! I like multiple texts!! It’s easier to keep my track of my thoughts, like that. If I try to put it all in one text, I forget what I wanna say.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:26): </em> </b> <em>And dw about it, it’s chill! I know you didn’t mean it like that, I was just teasing :) </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:27): </em> </b> <em> I get what you mean tho. Coming out was so scary … But now I sort of forget that not everybody knows. I just like to assume they do lol. It’s stopped being such a big thing, now that I can just, like, relax about it.  </em></p><p>Unsure of how to respond, I type out a simple … </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:28): </em> </b> <em> Yeah.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:28): </em> </b> <em> Yeah :)  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:28): </em> </b> <em> Seriously, tho. Who is Mordelia? You never actually answered me lol.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:29): </em> </b> <em> She’s my little sister.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:30): </em> </b> <em> Oh lol! That’s crazy! I didn’t think you had a sibling.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:30): </em> </b> <em> You don’t give off doting big brother vibes.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:31): </em> </b> <em> More like … Spoiled only child, ones. LOL! :D </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:31): </em> </b> <em> Is she your only sibling?  </em></p><p>Unable to help myself, I chuckle, quietly.  </p><p><b> <em>ME (20:32): </em> </b> <em> Very funny, Snow. But I never said I was doting! I may be their brother, but I still have standards.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:33): </em> </b> <em> And, no (Unfortunately). I have three more - Two sisters, and a brother. They’re my step-siblings technically, though. And they’re quite a bit younger than me. So, I was an only child for quite a long time.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:33): </em> </b> <em> Cool!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:34): </em> </b> <em> Do they all have stupidly posh names, too?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:34): </em> </b> <em> And, do you like having siblings? </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:35): </em> </b> <em> I always wanted a brother, when I was little!  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:36): </em> </b> <em> Yes. Unfortunately, my family are incapable of picking normal names.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:37): </em> </b> <em> And, yes. Most of the time, anyway. It’s nice to always have somebody to talk to - Or to play with (Although, I think I would’ve appreciated that more, if the age-gap wasn’t quite so wide). But, they do drive me up the wall, sometimes! Mordelia has taken to drawing all over my revision notes, recently - I’m sure you can imagine how I felt about that!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:40): </em> </b> <em> Aw, yeah. That sounds nice!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:40): </em> </b> <em> LMAO! THAT’S HILARIOUS! I feel bad for her tho … I’d hate to have your wrath turned on me! You'd probs make me cry lol.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:41): </em> </b> <em> Yes, well. Despite what you think - My wrath was, evidently, not strong enough! She’s still bloody doing it!  </em></p><p>
  <strong>
    <b>
      <em>SS (20:43): </em>
    </b>
  </strong>
  <em> Aha lol! I like her! She sounds as stubborn as you. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A soft rap on the door, disturbs me from my conversation with Snow. </p><p>“Baz, Honey? Are you in there?” Daphne calls, her voice sweet and cautious. </p><p>“Yeah? You can open the door. It’s fine - I’m decent.” </p><p>“Okay,” she hums, pushing the door open slightly, and peeping her head in. “I just wanted to let you know that I'm about to start plating up dinner.”</p><p>“Alright,” I smile. “Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.”</p><p>“Perfect. See you then,” she sings, turning and leaving the room. </p><p> </p><p>Hastily, I rattle out a text to Snow. </p><p><b> <em>ME (21:14):</em> </b> <em> As much as I am enjoying this, I have to go now, Snow. Sorry. </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (21:14): </em> </b> <em> Aw :( How come?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (21:15): </em> </b> <em> I’ve got to go and eat dinner.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (21:15):</em> </b> <em> At nine ?!?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (21:16): </em> </b> <em> Yes, Snow - At nine. I must compliment you on your time-telling abilities!   </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (21:16):</em> </b> <em> My Father insists that we eat dinner together as a family, but he was working late tonight … So, nine P.M steak it is.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (21:17): </em> </b> <em> Aw fuck! You have steak! I’m well jel :((( </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (21:17): </em> </b> <em> But, okay, no worries! Hope you enjoy your dinner.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (21:18): </em> </b> <em> TTYL :D </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (21:18):  </em> </b> <em>Will do! Talk to you later. Goodbye for now :) </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Sparks and Plasters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p><b> <em>SS (20:14):</em> </b> <em> What are you up to anyways?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:15): </em> </b> <em> Well, I was reading a book. But now I’m talking to you ... Obviously.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:15): </em> </b> <em> Oh shit, sorry. I can text you l8r if you prefer. I didn’t mean to bother you.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:16): </em> </b> <em> No. Don’t worry, you're not bothering me. I wanted to talk to you … You’re far more entertaining than Austen, anyway.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:16):</em> </b> <em> Okay cool :D </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:16): </em> </b> <em> Austen? Like ... Jane Austen? Is that for school?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:17): </em> </b> <em> No. Just for fun. </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:18): </em> </b> <em> WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:18): </em> </b> <em> I had to read Pride and Prejudice for the GCSEs. It nearly killed me! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:19): </em> </b> <em> I’ve never really been the best at reading, but that just took the piss! I swear to God, I didn’t understand like half of the words! </em></p><p><b><em>ME (20:20): </em></b><em>That's understandable, to be honest. I will admit that the language can be a little </em><em>'</em><em>flowery</em><em>'</em><em> at times. If you’re not really into reading, Austen isn’t exactly the most accessible literature. The stories</em> are<em> good though.</em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:21): </em> </b> <em> Did you watch the film?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:23): </em> </b> <em>Yeah, no kidding. I despised that fucking book! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:23):  </em> </b> <em>And, kind of. We watched, like, half of it in class, but we never finished it - Ran out of time.</em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:24): </em> </b> <em> That’s unfortunate, it's pretty good, as far as adaptations go. I have the DVD somewhere. If I can find it, we could watch it together when you come over, if you’d like?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:24): </em> </b> <em> Aw yeah defo :) That sounds good. </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:24): </em> </b> <em> Are you free tomorrow? </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:25): </em> </b> <em> Not for me to come over dw - I know you want to wait till your dad is away.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:25): </em> </b> <em> If not dw. I know it’s a bit short notice. Soz.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (20:26): </em> </b> <em> Don’t worry. I’m free, as far as I know. Why? What did you have in mind? </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:26): </em> </b> <em> I was wondering if you wanted to come play footie with me?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:27):</em> </b> <em> Josh and Nathan are out.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:27): </em> </b> <em> So it would just be us 2. </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:28):</em> </b> <em> If that’s okay with you? I know footie with just 2 is a bit difficult.  </em></p><p>Pathetically, my chest surges at the sight of it … <em> Just us two. </em> It’s more than okay. It’s <em>perfect. </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:30): </em> </b> <em> That’s okay, I’m sure it would still be fun - I’d like to come. What time were you thinking?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:30): </em> </b> <em> 1:30ish. I can do later/earlier if it’s better for you tho.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:31):</em> </b> <em> No, that won’t be necessary. 1:30 sounds fine.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:32): </em> </b> <em> Okay good :) The pitch is a few mins away from the home. I could come and pick you up if you like? We could walk down together?  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:32): </em> </b> <em> Is my house on the way?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:33): </em> </b> <em> Nah. Not exactly. I don’t mind tho it’ll only take, like, 15 mins more.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:34):</em> </b> <em> I can just drive down to your house. There’s no need for you to go out of your way.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:34): </em> </b> <em> Oh okay, sure. Sounds good :)  </em></p><p>
  <em> <b>SS (20:34): </b>Lazybones ;) </em>
</p><p><b> <em>SS (20:34): </em> </b> <em> Do you need my address?  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (20:35): </em> </b> <em> Yes, Snow. As talented as I may be, I’m not a psychic.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:35): </em> </b> <em> Aha lol. Bigheaded much?  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:36): </em> </b> <em> I live on Pallot Road. Number 61.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (20:36): </em> </b> <em> Do you know where it is?  </em></p><p><b><em>SS (20:36)</em></b><em>: Idk the postcode off the top of my head.</em> <em>Soz. </em></p><p><b><em>BP (20:37): </em></b><em>Yes, I know it.</em> <em>I’ll be there at 1:30. </em></p><p><b><em>SS (20:38): </em></b><em>Cool.</em> <em>Can’t wait :) </em></p><p>I falter, unsure of how much of myself I’m willing to give away. I’ve never been good with openness - Hiding behind sharp words, and a false air of indifference. In <em>that</em> respect, I’m Snow’s antithesis. He’s a boy without walls - Open and forthright, to a fault. Defenseless, yet not afraid. I don’t believe that he’s ever tried to conceal any part of himself, around me - Even when we were literal strangers (Which, despite how it may feel, was barely a week ago). And, we’re certainly more than that, now (Well, I hope so, anyway). So why should I keep pretending? Why not just be real? Why not be a little more Simon Snow? I mean, he could hardly fault me for it - That would just be <em> immensely </em> hypocritical. </p><p>I type out my response in a rush, staring down the screen critically. Realistically, all I’m doing is parroting him. And while I know that, it feels like something much more. It feels like a partial admission of <em>another</em> truth. Another, much more <em>frightening</em> truth … That Simon Snow appears to have found himself in my affections, in a way that nobody else has before. That being with him makes my heart pulse, and my soul sing … That I’m a <em> helpless, </em> lovelorn <em> fool.  </em></p><p>Nevertheless, I scrunch my eyes closed, and hit send quickly (Before my courage, inevitably, dries up). </p><p><b> <em>BP (20:43): </em> </b> <em> Neither can I. It’ll be great to see you again.  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He’s already standing outside when I pull up to his house. His bronze curls whipping around in the wind, messily, and a hand tracing the hem of his hoodie absentmindedly. </p><p>Shyly, I slide out of the car, and pace over to him. </p><p>“Good morning, Snow.”</p><p>“Hey, Baz!” he chirps, smiling over at me. </p><p>“You’re actually ready on time, this time. <em> Congratulations!” </em> I toy. </p><p>“Hey! Piss off!” He gruffs, sweeping his hair back, out of his face. “I was <em> three </em> minutes late. That doesn’t even count!” </p><p>“Au contraire - It most certainly <em> does </em> count. I was <em> deeply </em> inconvenienced by your casual approach to promptness. I had to sit on the stairs for a <em> whole five minutes ... </em> I looked like a complete prat.”</p><p>“Not my problem,” he shrugs. “You didn’t have to wait <em> right </em> by the door, you moron. <em> That </em> is <em> completely </em> on you.”</p><p>“Whatever,” I scoff, my face flooding with heat. </p><p>He lets out a laugh - Deep and rumbling. “You know for a smart guy, you really are awfully dumb sometimes, Baz”</p><p>I roll my eyes dramatically, unable to think up a comeback. Stumped, I decide to move the conversation forwards ... </p><p>“Have you got everything you need?” I ask, nodding my head towards the backpack in his hands - Not even <em>bothering</em> to question why he’s chosen to hold it that way. </p><p>“Yep. I brought a ball, and everything!” </p><p>“Perfect,” I mumble, nudging my hand against his, and pulling the bag from between his fingers. “I’ll just put this in the boot, and then we can go ... Hop on in, <em> Golden boy.” </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>Baz is <em>ruthless</em> on the pitch (Just like I’d imagined he’d be) - Pelting across the grass at a breakneck speed, and booting goal after goal into the back of the net. Truly, He’s a sight to behold - All straining muscles, and wicked grins. I’d be basking in it … If I wasn’t so <em> bloody </em> annoyed. </p><p>He’s absolutely thrashing me <em> (Of course) </em> - 5 to Nil. It’s an absolute disaster on my end, having, apparently, lost any sort of scoring capability. And, to make matters worse, he’s not exactly <em>coy</em> about it - Assaulting me with a constant stream of ' Are you even trying, Snow 's and over-exaggerated, false yawns. <em> Utter prat.  </em></p><p>In my desperation, I stick my leg out in a particularly botched attempt at a tackle, accidentally clipping the back of his ankle, and sending him tumbling to the ground. <em> Shit.  </em></p><p>“Oh my god,” I breathe, squatting down onto the floor besides him, and flipping him over with a tug to his shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. I was trying to get the ball, I swear I didn’t mean to do <em> that.” </em></p><p>He glares up at me, his full lips twisted into an acrid scowl. My stomach sinks at the sight of it. <em> Shit. </em><em>I’ve really fucked this up. </em></p><p>But then, he’s chortling heartily (Apparently incapable of maintaining his <em>cruel</em> act, any longer). His face scrunching up delightfully, as his eyes well up with joyful tears.</p><p>“What the fuck even <em> was </em> that, you <em>complete barbarian,”</em> he laughs, clutching at his stomach, stupidly. “Couldn’t stand losing, so you thought you’d just try <em>knocking me out</em> instead ... That is <em> definitely </em> a foul, Snow”</p><p>“I know, I know. It was an accident though, I swear,” I whine. “Just ... Shut up, and let me help you, you <em>dick.”</em></p><p>I stick a hand out, pulling him up into a sitting position. He’s a mess - Small clumps of mud and grass clinging to his face, and a nasty, bloodied scraze disfiguring his knee. Yet somehow, even <em> with </em>all the marks of my stupidity, he still manages to look infuriatingly good.  </p><p>I take his face in my hands gently, tilting it towards mine. The laughter dies out, suddenly - His face falling marginally, as he goes eerily quiet. Unperturbed, I continue my ministrations, brushing my fingers across his face, sweeping away the debris as I go. </p><p>“I <em>really</em> am sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”</p><p>“It’s alright, Snow. I was only teasing. I know it was an accident. It’s fine, really, it’s just a little scrape - Nothing a wash and a plaster won’t fix.” </p><p>“Okay,” I huff, relieved. “I didn’t bring any with me, though ... But, there’s a first aid kit back at home. We could go and patch you up there?” </p><p>“No. If it’s alright, I’d rather do it back at my own house. It’ll be much less awkward that way”</p><p>“Oh,” I drone, my voice weak with disappointment. “Sure.” </p><p>How the <em> fuck </em> did I manage to mess things up so quickly? We were <em> supposed </em> to spend the rest of the day together (I mean, neither of us ever <em> actually </em> said that, but it was <em>definitely</em> assumed), and now, within one <em> poxy </em> hour, I’ve managed to kill all chances of that. <em>I'm such a bloody idiot.   </em></p><p>“Cheer up, misery-guts,” he giggles, “There’s no need to strop - You can come too. You might just have to sneak in through the window, or something.” </p><p>“Okay, sure,” I beam, stupidly elated. “I can handle that.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>As it turns out, he really <em>can't</em> handle it. </p><p>“Christ, Snow,” I hiss. “You’re being <em> way </em> too loud. <em> Shut up.” </em></p><p>“It ain't my fault! I don’t know why the <em> fuck </em> you thought I would be able to climb up this thing properly. It’s made for <em> flowers </em> Baz, not people!” </p><p>He has a point, to be honest. I knew that getting him up the trellis would be a challenge, but we didn’t exactly have many other options. </p><p>I thrust my hand out of the window, gripping onto his forearm tightly, and shifting my weight to support him properly.</p><p>With that, his body starts shaking violently, a poorly concealed chuckle escaping his lips. </p><p>“I told you to shut it, moron,” I scold (Although, there is no real malice in it - The smile is <em> clearly </em> audible in my voice). </p><p>“I’m trying, really. It’s just - It’s just this is like some shitty version of Romeo and Juliet, Baz. You can’t blame me!” He laughs. “It’s funny!”</p><p>“Yes well … Romeo was <em>much</em> more graceful about it than you!” </p><p>“Shhhh. I’m doing my best. I’m almost up! You should’ve gotten me a rope or something, it isn’t <em> my </em> fault!”</p><p>“Oh yes, Snow,” I deadpan. “Sorry. Let me go and grab the ten foot rope I keep under my bed at all times”</p><p>“Hey! I don’t know what kind of kinky shit you’re into! You could've had a rope lying around <em>somewhere!”</em></p><p>I don’t even <em> try </em>and justify that with a response, choosing, instead, to focus on helping him up. </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p><em> Eventually, </em> we manage to pull him into the room - Snow plopping down onto the floor, with an unceremonious thud.</p><p>Laughing hysterically, he props himself up against the wall besides me, and rests his head against the side of my shoulder. </p><p>“Thanks for helping me up. I was so scared I was gonna fall back into that <em> stupid </em> rose bush.”</p><p>“It’s no problem. I didn’t <em> really </em> fancy having to explain to Father why you, of all people, were sneaking into my bedroom.” </p><p>“Hmmm,” he hums, his throat vibrating distractingly, against my shoulder. “You need me to help you with your leg?” </p><p>“No. I can handle it … I was going to have a quick shower, actually, if that’s alright with you? Get it properly cleaned up and everything, you know." </p><p>“Oh yeah, that’s fine,” He murmurs, lifting his head up, and shifting his body sideways (Away from mine). “What - I mean what am I supposed to do, though? Do you want me to hide somewhere?” </p><p>I puff out a breath, amused by his sincerity. “No, Snow,” I drawl. “You don’t have to hide yourself away in the wardrobe. You can just wait around here. Nobody is going to come in - Don’t worry.” </p><p>“Oh, right” He mumbles, glancing his eyes down towards the floor. “Cool.”</p><p>“Yeah. There’s plenty here to keep you entertained, though. You could play on the PS, or watch some TV … Or, you could read something, I suppose. Although, I know you’re not big on that.” </p><p>He smiles over at me, his freckled cheeks puffing out wide. It’s frustratingly adorable. </p><p>“Yeah, maybe not <em> that. </em> I’ll probably just watch TV, if that’s okay?” </p><p>“Of course it’s okay. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise,” I say, jumping up, and treading over to the en-suite door. “I won't be long, though, <em>honest</em> - I’ll be back in half an hour, latest.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It <em> definitely </em> took me longer than half an hour. Although, that was Snow’s fault entirely - His <em> lovely </em> tackle, had left <em> awful </em> clumps of mud matted into my hair, so I <em> had </em> to give it a proper wash.</p><p>When I step back into the room (My hair still <em> annoyingly </em> damp), Snow has got himself starfished out across my bed, his chin propped up in his hands. He looks completely at ease, laid out in my bed like that - Even with the, admittedly, rather intimidating decor of my room. </p><p>Stepping besides the bed, I scoop his legs up in my arms, and swing them over to one side of the bed - Making room for myself besides him. </p><p>“What are you watching then, Snow?” I ask, laying myself down onto the duvet. </p><p>“Dunno. Some crap cop show. I wasn’t really paying attention.” </p><p>“No?” I ask, gasping with faux incredulity. “Would you like to play some FIFA instead? That way I can thrash you again, <em>without</em> sustaining any serious injuries.”</p><p>“Don’t be a wanker, Baz,” he scolds. “You <em> know </em> I didn’t mean to do that!”</p><p>“I know, I know,” I coo. “I’m only messing with you. Don’t stress.”</p><p>He glares at me, pouting his lips out, slightly. “Okay then,” he agrees, a sly smirk spreading across his face. “I actually play <em> a lot </em>of FIFA, you know. So, I reckon I’m going to enjoy beating you … Would serve you right for being such a cocky bastard!” </p><p>I raise my eyebrows in challenge, punching out a quick, mirthless laugh. “I’d like to see you try, <em>Snow.</em> Do your worst … We’ll see who comes out on top!” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>For all my arrogance, I will admit that Snow was <em>actually</em> a very <em>worthy</em> opponent (Although, I’d never tell <em> him </em>that).</p><p>Considering that I’d been playing everyday for the last two months, I <em>had</em> assumed it would be an easy victory - But, as it turns out, I was wrong. He put up a more than admirable fight - Actually leading for the majority of the match. But, <em>of course,</em> I still managed to beat him - Hammering in a goal on the ninety-third minute (Much to Snow’s dismay). </p><p>“For fuck sakes!” He fumes, throwing the controller down onto the bed, childishly. “I almost <em>bloody</em> had it, as well!”</p><p>“There, there, Snow,” I tease, pressing a hand to his shoulder in a mocking comfort. “There’s always next time.”</p><p>“Piss off, Baz!” He whines, flopping back against my pillows with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve had enough of this <em>shitty</em> game!”</p><p>“Alright,” I breathe, slowly laying myself down besides him, as I desperately try to suppress the laughter bubbling up inside me. “Do you want to play a different game, then?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Okay,” I drawl, my voice rising with uncertainty. “So … You want-”</p><p>“Just wanna stay here for a bit,” he gruffs. </p><p>“Okay. We can stay here, then.” I agree, my voice hushed.</p><p>As silence settles over us, I steal a glance over at him.</p><p>He’s got an arm stretched out over his face (The synthetic material of his football shirt, straining against his broad shoulders, perfectly), and beneath it, I can see the hint of a smile playing at his lips. </p><p>Unobserved, I take my opportunity to scan my eyes over him, appreciatively. Sprawled out against my bed, he looks positively obscene. His hair mussed intoxicatingly, where it rests against my pillow, and every revealed inch of skin decorated with constellations of moles. For a moment, I envision pressing my lips against them, lavishing each and every mark with the attention they deserve, but I quickly restrain myself. Allowing my mind to wander now, when he’s so close to me, would be an <em>irreparably </em>idiotic move. </p><p>In an attempt to cool myself down, I flutter my eyes shut, and shift my focus onto the steady puff of his breathing - Slow and constant. <em> In and Out. In and Out. In and Out …  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Embarrassingly, I’m halfway to sleep when he speaks next. </p><p>“Baz?” he whispers, poking my arm lightly. “Are you awake?”</p><p>“Yeah,” I mumble, my voice deep and lazy with tiredness. </p><p>“Okay. Cool,” he sighs. “Can - I mean, can I ask you something?” </p><p>“Hmmm. Of course” I hum. </p><p>“It's just that, I’ve been thinking … Did - Did you mean what you said the other day?”</p><p>I scoff, quietly. “You’re going to have to be a <em> little </em>more specific, if you want me to answer that, Snow.”</p><p>“Right yeah. Obviously,” he huffs, clearly frustrated. </p><p>Opening my eyes, I tilt my head over to look at him - Our eyes meeting immediately. His deep blue boring into my grey. This close, it’s far too intense.</p><p>Caught off guard, and humiliatingly wonderstruck, I avert my eyes, focusing my gaze on the canopy of my bed, instead. I feel my face flush with heat, once again, and pray to<em> God </em> that he doesn’t notice. <em> That </em> would be the last thing I need, right now.</p><p>“I just - I mean what you said to your dad,” he continues, stammering slightly.</p><p>“What bit?” </p><p>“When you were all like - 'Oh don’t worry Father, he's one of mine',” he explains, making an absolutely atrocious attempt at mimicking my accent. “I just mean like - Do you really have lots of, like - I don’t know ... Guys?” </p><p>“No,” I drone. “There’s no one else ... Never has been. I just said that to get him off of your case. He doesn’t really like talking about <em> that stuff, </em> so I figured it would be effective.” </p><p>“Oh,” He breathes. “Okay.”</p><p>I pause, unsure of what else to say. The silence stretches between us painfully - Tangible tension flooding the air. And then, I feel it. It’s barely a brush at first - Easy to play off as a simple accident, given our close proximity. But then, he continues. Pressing our hands together more fervently - His skin impossibly warm against mine. It’s searing - The contact lighting me up from within, as hopeful sparks ignite within me. </p><p>I gulp, audibly. “Why?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. </p><p>“Just - I’m just like … Curious, I suppose,” he murmurs, his finger tip tracing it’s way along the side of my thumb. It’s feather-light, but it weighs like lead in my heart. And I think that, maybe <em>(just maybe),</em> he might be <em>trying</em> to tell me <em>exactly</em> what I want to hear.  </p><p>He presses on, nervously, his voice wavering slightly. “It’s just that -”</p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, there’s a banging at the door - Loud and insistent. </p><p>Panicked, I shove him off of the bed, sending him flopping onto the floor with a girlish yelp. Biting back a laugh, I rush over to the door, and pull it open ever so slightly. </p><p>“Basilton. Dinner is ready. I don’t know what <em> on earth </em> you’re doing in here, making all that <em>racket,</em> but you need to come downstairs now,” Father chastises. </p><p>“Of course. I’ll be down in just a minute.” </p><p>“Alright. Hurry down though. <em> Please </em> don’t keep us all waiting. We don’t want to start without you.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it, Father,” I taunt, my tone laced with sarcasm. He’ll definitely lecture me about <em> that </em> later (He’s never impressed with my <em> 'petulant attitude'), </em> but, right now, I don’t particularly care.  </p><p> </p><p>Closing the door behind him, I scurry over back to where Snow is sat. </p><p>“You have to leave,” I whisper, rushing out the words with a frightful urgency. “I’m sorry. I lost track of time. You just - You really have to leave. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone ... So, you can't <em>really</em> stay.”</p><p>“Hey, hey, hey,” he hushes. “It’s fine. Don’t stress. Do you want me to go right now?”</p><p>“No,” I cry. “Just - Wait until I’ve been down at dinner for a few minutes - <em> Then </em> you can leave … That way, you can be certain nobody will be creeping around outside.” </p><p>“Okay, sure.” he says, smiling over at me. </p><p>Looking at him - I hesitate. “But - Are you <em>sure</em> you’ll be okay climbing? If you’d rather wait, I’m sure that I can find <em> some </em> other way to sneak you out, a little bit later. I could say I'm going out to the bin, or something. If you were quiet, we might be able to get away with it.”<br/>“Baz,” he sing-songs, teasingly. “I’m <em> sure </em> I can climb down without your help. It’s only <em> one </em> floor.” </p><p>“Yes well,” I deadpan. “Forgive me for thinking it may be best to find an alternative route. You didn’t exactly <em> dazzle </em> me with your speed or grace in getting up here.”</p><p>He snickers, squinting his eyes at me daringly. </p><p>“Yeah, but it’ll be easier going down. So chill. I can handle it - Trust,” he reassures. “You’ve seriously gotta go and get your dinner now, though. If your dad comes stomping up here to yell at you, it’s game over for me! And then fussing over this would've been entirely <em>pointless” </em></p><p>“Okay,” I huff, standing and pacing over to the door, reluctantly.</p><p>Flashing him a quick smile, I call out a quiet “Message you later, Snow,”, and then, I leave him. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>I’m just tucking into my dinner, when an almighty crash tears through the hush of the dining room. Of course, <em> I </em> know what it is immediately - Simon <em> bloody </em> Snow falling off of that god-forsaken trellis.</p><p><em> Fucking hell. </em> I <em>knew</em> I should’ve tried to sneak him out another way.</p><p>I mean, what if he’s hurt himself? It’s not exactly a <em> steep </em> fall, but it’s certainly enough to do <em> some </em> damage. And he only reason he is even <em>here,</em> is because of <em>my stupid, </em> <em>desperate </em>plot to get to spend more time with him - And <em>now,</em> he's probably laying out there with a broken leg, or something. <em>God. I'm such a selfish dolt. </em></p><p> </p><p>Anxiously, I slide my phone out of my pocket, beneath the table, and hurry out a quick text. </p><p><b> <em>ME (19:27):</em> </b> <em> Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself? Do you need help? </em></p><p>I wait, holding my breath as my leg bounces under the table, impatiently. </p><p><b> <em>SS (19:28):</em> </b> <em> Nah. Don’t worry. I’m good.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (19:28):</em> </b> <em> I might’ve killed your flowers tho :/  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (19:28):</em> </b> <em> Sorry!  </em></p><p>I smile to myself privately - Doing my best to hide my grin behind my hand. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> That bloody disaster is going to be my undoing, I swear. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed!<br/>This chapter was the absolute death of me, I swear ... And, I'm still not entirely happy with it. So please excuse me if you catch me randomly editing chunks in/out. I just can't seem to get this one right :/<br/>My Tumblr: <a href="https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/">Link text</a><br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Save The Date</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Not the most eventful chapter, sorry!  But TRUST ... The next 2 chapters are worth it :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>After last week, me and Baz quickly fell into a routine of texting <em> whenever </em> either of us were free. It was the first thing I did in the morning, and the last thing I did at night (I <em> even </em> found myself waking up earlier, <em> just </em> so that we could speak more). It was a little bit pathetic, really - But, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. </p><p>We spoke about everything - Our likes and dislikes, our childhoods, our favourite sports teams, our other friends - You name it, we spoke about it. Well … Everything except what happened <em> last time. </em> We <em> never </em>spoke about that - Although, I figure that, that was probably for the best.  </p><p>So, it’s really no surprise that, the second I settled down into the booth to eat, I pulled my phone out and messaged him. </p><p><b><em>ME (15:19):</em></b> <em>Hey, hey, hey, Bazzy Bitch!</em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:19): </em> </b> <em> How are you doing? :) </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:21): </em> </b> <em> Snow, I am genuinely BEGGING you to stop with the nicknames. Bazzy Bitch … Really? That's atrocious, even for you.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:22): </em> </b> <em> And, I’m very well, thanks. Yourself?  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:24): </em> </b> <em> Good :) I’m great, thanks! </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:24): </em> </b> <em> And I’m never gonna stop with the nicknames. Never!!!! Not until I find one you like anyways ;) I’ve got a WHOLE list imma work my way through! </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:25): </em> </b> <em> I’m back at the Pizza place we went to together! </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:25):</em> </b> <em> I even got free chips this time :D  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:26): </em> </b> <em> Oh wow - I’m seething with envy. Free artery-clogging chips AND greasy pizza … What a gift!  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:26): </em> </b> <em> And ALL of that, on top of your chocolate pancakes this morning? Your internal organs must be thanking you!  </em></p><p>I scoff, aloud, stupidly pleased with his grating wit. </p><p><b> <em>SS (15:27): </em> </b> <em> OI! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:27): </em> </b> <em> Don't be a sarcastic twat! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:27): </em> </b> <em> You LOVED the food there. You were practically drooling over it!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:28): </em> </b> <em> Don't even TRY and deny it!  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:29): </em> </b> <em> It was adequate. </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:28): </em> </b> <em> Exactly! See! You loved it!  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:28):</em> </b> <em> Adequate is Baz talk for “It was the most delicious thing I’ve EVER eaten!”  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:29): </em> </b> <em> You’re just winding me up! </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:29):</em> </b> <em> If you REALLY didn’t like it you’d go all OTT using posho insults … NOT say it was adequate.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:31):</em> </b> <em> You’d be all like … “Oh, Snow. This is positively ghastly! Atrocious! Lamentable, even! My private chef would never DARE serve me an abhorrent dish!”  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:33): </em> </b> <em> Sure, Snow. Whatever you say.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:34): </em> </b> <em> You know I’m right! You just don’t wanna admit it.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (15:34): </em> </b> <em> Cuz you’re a right dickhead :p </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:35): </em> </b> <em> How rude! I’m hardly a dickhead … I didn’t even make you admit how many of those words you had to Google, Snow! </em></p><p>I roll my eyes (Even though he can’t see them), and type out a simple, yet effective, response … </p><p><b> <em>SS (15:34): </em> </b> <em> Wanker!  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>Despite myself, I let out an unnecessarily loud laugh - Helplessly charmed by the idiocy of it all. I mean, <em> seriously, </em> only Simon Snow could call me a wanker, and leave me giggling like a bloody schoolgirl! </p><p>Regretfully, my little outburst draws Daphne’s attention away from the twins (Who appear to be trying to kill each other with Lego Duplo blocks), and straight onto me. </p><p>“Who are you talking to then, Sweet?” She asks. </p><p>“Just a friend,” I snap, my tone far too urgent. </p><p>“Okay,” she drawls, clearly having picked up on my unnecessary defensiveness. “Who?”</p><p>“Uh - Simon. Nobody you’d know. They’re sort of a <em> new </em> friend.”</p><p>“Oh I see. Did you meet him at the club?” </p><p>“No,” I snicker (Struggling to imagine somebody like Snow belonging somewhere so unnecessarily snooty, and uptight). “I just … Met him in town the other day. At the cinema.”</p><p>“Oh well, that’s nice,” she beams.</p><p>“Yeah,” I drone. “Very nice.” </p><p>She stares over to me, her full lips quirked up into a soft smile, and her deep brown eyes studying my face closely. She knows. Obviously. She <em> always </em> knows - Bloody mother’s intuition! </p><p>“And … Is he …” </p><p>She doesn’t have to ask properly, because I know what she’s trying to say. </p><p>Daphne has always been accepting of my sexuality. Although, it’s more than that, actually - She’s always been fully<em> open </em> to the idea of it (Not just reluctantly tolerant). Occasionally enquiring about whether I’ve been seeing “Anyone special”, and insisting that I must invite him over for dinner (Even <em>after</em> I tried to tell her that no such person existed). And I just <em> know, </em> that <em> she </em> was behind that infernal “Same-sex sexual education” pamphlet, I found on my bed last summer (It was <em> actually </em> fairly informative, although, I’d <em> really </em> rather have just sought out the information out myself. The <em> humiliation </em> of knowing that she’d read <em> that </em> with me in mind, made me want to set myself on fire). </p><p>So, the words that go unsaid when she asks if Simon is …  Are 'Your boyfriend'.</p><p>“No,” I sigh. “He’s <em> just </em> a friend. Honest.” </p><p>'Just a friend' … The words twist in my mouth, bitter and scornful. And, while it is <em> technically </em> the truth, it feels like a lie. </p><p>“Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious,” She shrugs. “But … It’s lovely to see you smiling. I’m glad that you found him - Friend, or otherwise.” </p><p>“Yeah,” I huff, scrubbing my hands together awkwardly. “Actually ... About Simon. I’ve been meaning to ask. Do you think that he could come over next Friday? For dinner.”</p><p>“Of course he can!” She grins. “I’m always telling you, you can invite people over. As long as it’s okay with his parents, that’s perfectly fine by me.” </p><p>“Okay. Perfect,” I sigh, pursing my lips, in an attempt to suppress my telltale grin. “Thank you.” </p><p>She smiles - Sweet and warm. “Of course.” </p><p>“But, just to warn you - He has quite an early curfew,” I stammer. “So - I mean, he has to be back home by eight. So, we may have to have dinner a little early. Is that … still okay?” </p><p>“Well, it’s not ideal, but I’m sure I can sort something out.”</p><p>“Okay,” I breathe, relieved. “Sorry. I would order a takeaway, or something, but I sort of promised him a homemade meal. The food at his place isn’t exactly the best, and yours is objectively delicious … So, I figured that he'd appreciate a <em> proper </em> meal.” </p><p>“Oh you little flatterer,” she says, laughing demurely. “I’ll figure something out, don’t worry. If worst comes to worst, he could always just stay the night - That way we could have dinner at a normal time, and you two wouldn’t have to rush yourselves.” </p><p>And there it is - Two whole days with Simon Snow, served up to me on a silver platter. Daphne truly is a superior stepmother. </p><p>“Okay. Yeah,” I stutter, my face flushing absurdly. “I mean … I’ll check if he’s allowed, but that would be <em> great. </em> Thank you.” </p><p>She smirks lightly, shrugging her shoulders casually (As if she hasn’t just made my entire month). “It’s no problem. It’ll be nice for you to have some company.” </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>Elated, I scoop up my phone and fire out a quick text to Snow. But, before I can hit send, I remember - Father. </p><p>“Uh - Daphne,” I mumble. “Actually … I was going to ask - Do you think that you could not tell Father?” </p><p>Her face folds into a frown - Her eyebrows falling, and her eyes squeezing shut, as though pained by my request. </p><p>“Basil,” she sighs. “If that’s really what you want, then <em>of course</em> I’ll keep it a secret. But, your Father doesn’t care about you having friends over. Even <em> if </em>they’re boys … Even <em>if</em> they’re more than just a friend -”</p><p>I scoff, unconvinced. </p><p>“- He loves you Basil. I know it. He talks about you all the time - How <em> proud </em> he is of you, how <em>smart</em> he thinks you are, how much you remind him of her. He thinks the world of you … Even <em> if </em> he refuses to show it. And, I <em> know </em> that he didn’t exactly respond <em> well </em> to your coming out, but he still cares for you. Trust me, I understand that it’s desperately unfair that you should have to wait, but … He <em> will </em> come around. Even if I have to drag him there kicking and screaming myself! You don’t have to hide yourself away in your <em> own house. </em> I don’t want that for you. <em> He </em> doesn’t want that for you.”</p><p>I scrunch my face up, unsure of what to say. </p><p>“It isn’t <em>that,”</em>  I murmur, my voice frustratingly weak. “I just … I don’t want him to know. Father has <em> sort of </em> met Simon before. But ... He didn’t <em> exactly </em>make the best first impression. So, I’d rather he not know that Simon was here.”</p><p>“Oh?” she chuckles, her curiosity peaked. “What did he do?” </p><p>I falter, gawping at her stupidly. “The egging … That was Simon.”</p><p>She grins wickedly, clearly amused. </p><p>“But it was just a joke!” I continue. “He’s a <em> really, really </em> nice guy once you get to know him. And, he’d <em> never </em> do something like that <em> normally! </em> It was just a stupid game that went a little too far. And he was <em> super, super </em>sorry - He came back to clean it, and everything.”</p><p>“Okay, okay,” she chuckles. “We all make mistakes, Basil. I won’t hold it against him. But … You’re right - It’s probably best if we keep Simon away from your father. Don’t worry, Sweet. Your secret’s safe with me.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p><b> <em>BP (15:51): </em> </b> <em> Good news, Snow - You’ve been invited to dinner. Friday. My place. Sound okay?  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:52): </em> </b> <em> And, don't worry, Father is in Oxford over the weekend, so you’ll be perfectly safe.  </em></p><p>I smile down at my phone, ecstatically happy. </p><p><b><em>ME (15:52): </em></b><em>Haha</em> <em>defo :D</em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:52): </em> </b> <em> Dinner sounds great!  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:53): </em> </b> <em> What time did you want me to come over?  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:54): </em> </b> <em> I was thinking 11am-ish. That way we could spend the entire day together.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (15:54): </em> </b> <em> Okay yeah. Sure :) Sounds fabbbb.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:57): </em> </b> <em>Yes. </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:57): </em> </b> <em>Actually, s</em><em>peaking of spending the day together - My stepmother said that you could stay the night, if you’d like. That way you wouldn’t have to stress about being back in time for your curfew. Forgive me, but I’m not entirely sure whether you’re actually allowed to go to sleepovers - But, if you are, then you’re more than welcome to stay.  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (15:58): </em> </b> <em> And, we’d be in separate rooms, and everything. Obviously. So you don't need to worry about that.  </em></p><p>I wasn’t really worried about that, to be honest. I can imagine <em>much</em> worse than spending the night with Baz. Although, I won’t tell him that - <em>That</em> is <em> definitely far </em> too forward. </p><p><b> <em>BP (15:58): </em> </b> <em> And if you’d rather not, then that’s fine obviously. It’s just an option.  </em></p><p>Exhilarated - A manic grin breaks across my face, my cheeks aching with the force of it. If anyone were to look up at me right now, they’d probably think that I was mildly demented (Although, to be fair, I’m not entirely sure that I’m not - I do feel slightly mad with it all). </p><p>Irritatingly exposed, I slink off to the bathroom for some privacy. </p><p><b> <em>ME (16:00): </em> </b> <em> Of course I’m allowed to go to sleepovers, you plonker! It’s a children’s home … Not a prison. </em> <b>  </b></p><p><b> <em>BP (16:01): </em> </b> <em> The strict 8PM curfew suggests otherwise.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:01): </em> </b> <em> Aha lol true :D  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:03):</em> </b> <em> But nah, seriously. I’ve never actually been to a sleepover, but I’m pretty sure I just have to, like, ask my social worker. They’ll probs need to do some sort of check, and then I’m good. They’re normally fairly chill about that kind of stuff tbh, as long as you ask. And, I’m 17 now, not 6 - So I doubt they’ll have a problem with it.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:04): </em> </b> <em> They might need your parents number, though. Just to like … Call and check I’m not just bullshitting them :’)  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:04): </em> </b> <em> Dunno. I’ll go ask them in a sec.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:05): </em> </b> <em> But if they say I can, I defo wanna sleepover.  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (16:05): </em> </b> <em> It'll be nice not to have to run off after a few hours for once :)  </em></p><p><b> <em>BP (16:07): </em> </b> <em> Definitely. </em></p><p>
  <em> <b>BP (16:07): </b>Enough chatting, though, Snow. Go and ask, before you forget! I need definitive answers ASAP! Chop-chop! </em>
</p><p><strong> <em>ME (16:05): </em> </strong> <em> Alright, alright! Keep your wig on, you impatient git! I’ll go and ask now. So … Ttyl :D </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Kiss, Kiss, Fall in Love</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm soooo sorry this update too so, so long :(<br/>Writing this was an uphill battle, but I'm fairly pleased with the final result, and I hope you will be too. Hopefully it's worth your wait!<br/>Thank you all for your patience, and kind, supportive comments :)<br/>Also just FYI this chapter gets mildly, upsetting at one stage - So if you’re not in the mood for that, maybe come back some other time/skim over the dinner scene :) Sorryyyyy. I promise it’s mostly sickly sweet happiness!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>Staring into my reflection, I fiddle with my hair, desperately trying to smooth out a particularly disobedient wave. Realistically, it doesn’t matter (From the persistent tangle of Snow’s curls, it’s <em>fairly</em> apparent that he doesn’t mind the messy, untamed look), but it feels important.</p><p>Clicking my phone, I check the time once more. 11:07 - Seven minutes late, <em>typical. </em></p><p>We haven't met up since <em> whatever </em> happened last time, and I’m anxious to get the potential awkwardness of seeing him again over with, as soon as possible. We completely ignored it over text (Since he never brought it up, and I wasn’t exactly thirsting to accidentally expose my idiotic crush), but I'm not sure when can do the same face-to-face. I mean, surely it'll be more difficult to just pretend it never happened, confronted with the face of the memory, in real life. Although, despite the optimistic spark of hope buried deep within my gut, I doubt it really meant anything to him - So, maybe it won’t. </p><p>Either way, I just wish that he’d get here soon. The anticipation is killing me. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Just as I’m about to call and berate him, the doorbell rings.</p><p>Scrambling over to the door, I swing it open, pitifully enthusiastic. </p><p>“What time do you call this then?”</p><p>“Dunno,” he smiles, stepping inside. “I bought scones, though. So I think I’m worthy of forgiveness.” </p><p>My pulse slows at the sight of him, the trepidation thrumming throughout my body, cooling. Bright and smiling, he’s the same Snow as always. So, it seems that, despite it all, nothing is weird. Just as I suspected. Which is <em>good,</em> obviously (I mean, I didn’t want to <em>ruin</em> what we have), although, somehow … Mildly disappointing, too. </p><p>Risking a lingering glance, I take him in, appraisingly. It’s immediately apparent that he’s made an effort with his appearance today - Although, I consciously avoid thinking too deeply about <em> why </em>that is, knowing that my love-plagued mind would only lead me down the dangerous path of wishful thinking. He’s obviously attempted to brush his hair, which, going by it’s strangely loose, fluffy appearance, was a remarkably stupid idea. And he’s sporting a simple, white shirt. Objectively speaking, it’s a little too tight for him, the fabric pulling obscenely against the swell of his chest (Although, personally, I can’t say I object).</p><p>He’s a sight to behold - A little dishevelled, perhaps, but no less wondrous. I'd lavish in it all day if I could, although, conscious of getting caught, I tear my eyes away from him, reluctantly, and stare down at the floor, instead. </p><p>“Now <em> that </em> … Is entirely up to me, Snow,” I drawl. “And, I’m not convinced that a packet of scones is enough to earn you my forgiveness, especially considering that this <em> isn’t </em> your first offence.”</p><p><em> “Offence," </em>he snickers, bitterly. “I’m ten minutes late, at worst!” </p><p>Showily, I lift my wrist to glimpse at my watch (It’s set at the wrong time, so is, in reality, useless - Although, I won’t tell him that).</p><p>“Twenty three, actually.”</p><p>He glares at me, and murmurs something incoherent under his breath (Probably a swear word. He always resorts to those, when he’s frustrated), so I decide to ease off. He's only been here a minute - And there really is no need to do all of our bickering, now. </p><p>“Come on up, though,” I call, biting back a laugh, and padding up the stairs - The heavy clunk of Simon’s stomping, following behind me, momentarily. “I’m sure you can make it up to me <em> somehow."  </em></p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Just to let you know, I like talking while I’m watching movies.”</p><p>“Oh <em>god,”</em> I groan. “I should've known, you’re one of <em> those </em> people. Why didn’t you <em>warn</em> me?!” </p><p>“I just did, you pillock!”</p><p>“Yes - As I’m putting the bloody disc in! That doesn’t give me enough time to mentally prepare for your <em>onslaught</em> of meaningless commentary, Snow!” </p><p>“Hey! It’s not meaningless! I’ll have you know that I’m <em> very </em> perceptive ... I’m sure that my commentary will only <em>enrich</em> your movie-watching experience.” </p><p>I raise my brow, entirely unconvinced. If he was <em> really </em> so perceptive, I doubt that we’d be spending the day watching Pride and Prejudice - Considering that there are <em> many </em> other things I’d rather be doing with him, right now. </p><p>“You're such a liar,” I tease. “You best not just sit there spouting a bunch of useless crap, and claim your being insightful. If your<em> chatter </em> gets to be too much, I retain the right to clobber you, you know - So be warned!” </p><p>Apparently at a loss for words, he sticks his tongue out at me - His nose scrunching up, sweetly, as he does. <em> Oh god. </em> I even find that <em> pathetically childish </em> display endearing. <em>Clearly, </em> I’m disturbed - I mean, <em>poking his tongue out, seriously?</em> I'm in need of some <em> serious </em> correction. </p><p>Sucking in a breath, I try to push Snow out of my mind - Which is an <em> undeniably </em> big ask, considering that he’s sat barely a metre behind me, laid out on <em> my </em> sofa, grinning to himself, boyishly. So it’s no surprise that, I fail - My mind trailing off into thoughts of whether Snow’s chest is as freckly as the rest of him. </p><p>I sigh, frustrated. I’ve had crushes before, obviously (I mean, Rhys from Year Eleven Maths was an absolute <em> God), </em> but none have been quite as virulent as what I have for Snow. Nobody else has ever consumed my thoughts, so entirely. Nobody else has ever made my heart stutter, so dangerously. Nobody else has ever … </p><p>I <em> seriously </em> need to stop. He’s barely been here half an hour, and I’m already subsiding into a hormone-fuelled madness. If I keep this up, it's going to be an <em> insufferably long </em> two days.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>True to his word, Snow has managed to ramble over pretty much every scene, so far (With an unhelpful 'He sounds like Snape!' here, and a 'Her legs must be <em> super </em> tired, if she walked all that way!' there). </p><p>The urge to throttle him (or shut him up <em> another </em> way) was <em> certainly </em>growing. Although, beneath the seething anger, I must admit that his menial observations were somewhat winsome.  </p><p> </p><p>We’re about three-quarters of the way through the movie, when Snow flops down onto my leg, with a dramatic puff - His cheek pressing against my thigh, heavily. </p><p>Suddenly tense, I clench my hands into fists by my side, and try to refocus on the movie. </p><p>“He’s cute isn’t he? I like that guy,” he mumbles, his voice slightly muffled against the fabric of my jeans. </p><p>I glance down at him. He’s staring up at me, his blue eyes bright, and his lips curved into a soft smile. </p><p>“Really?” I ask, my tone laced with judgement. </p><p>“Yeah? You don’t think?” He asks, his brow furrowed deeply. His forehead folds into small crinkles, and for a <em> mad </em> moment, I imagine reaching out and smoothing them out with my fingertips. I don’t. Obviously. But, I could. He’s right there - Within my reach. It wouldn’t take much (Except a level of confidence I simply <em> don’t </em> have). </p><p>Pathetically, I look away, unable to hold his gaze any longer (My treacherous face, already flushing with heat). </p><p>“No. I never said that-” I scoff. </p><p>I didn’t say that, because it’s objectively untrue. He is, as Snow so <em>elo</em><em>quently</em> put it, <em>'cute' </em>- His hair ruffled excellently, and the hint of a dimple popping each time he smiles (Just like somebody <em>else,</em> I know). And while he is, undoubtedly, a <em>blithering idiot,</em> somehow, on him it’s charming. So ... It would be unfair to call him unattractive. </p><p>“- He’s … fine. But <em> this </em> is a very emotional scene, Snow. I thought you might have more to say than <em> 'He’s cute</em><em>'</em>. I <em>pity </em> your English teacher, if <em> that </em> is your level of analysis!”</p><p>“Oi nah! I got a B in English. And my teacher <em> loved </em> me! She gave me a homemade cookie on the last day, and everything - Only a few people got that! So don’t be a bellend!” </p><p><em> “Sure </em> she did,” I taunt. “I mean a <em> B </em> … That <em>certainly </em>is impressive. I got an A star, but -” </p><p>I’m interrupted by Snow jabbing his fist into my thigh, as hard as he possibly can, his knuckles digging into the muscle, sharply. </p><p>“Fuck off, you arrogant tosser!” He gruffs. </p><p>I laugh, despite myself - Embarrassingly loud and cackling. </p><p>“Ow, dick! You didn’t have to hit me so fucking hard,” I whine, snapping my head down towards him, and swatting at his arm, teasingly. </p><p>“You deserved it.”</p><p>“I know, I know,” I laugh. “I’m only winding you up though - A B is a <em> perfectly </em> good grade. It’s just funny to watch you pout ... If it’s any consolation, I only got a C in DT. My shitty attempt at a table fell apart before it was graded, so the coursework sort of tanked my grade. It’s my <em> greatest </em> shame. I told everybody else I got an A, so you're the only one who knows the truth.” </p><p>He beams over at me, his tongue pressed against his front teeth, goofily. </p><p>“Really? Well … That <em> is </em> unfortunate. <em> I </em> got an A star. But I guess we can’t <em> all </em> be so talented.” </p><p>I glare down at him, my face twisted into the cruellest scowl I can muster (It’s a fairly weak effort, though, but, in my defence, he <em>does</em> look adorably happy when he’s pleased with himself). </p><p>“Oh <em>ha ha.</em> <em>So hilarious," </em>I drone. “Just shut up and watch the film, you numpty!” </p><p>With an over-exaggerated huff, he rolls his head back towards the screen, his weight shifting against my leg, warmly. </p><p>Unobserved, I smile down at him, the movie significantly less appealing than the sight of him beneath me - His curls swept to one side, and his face smushed slightly where it’s pressed against me. </p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t look back up at me after that.</p><p>I try not to let it bother me.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>I leave Simon playing Fortnite alone, to go to fetch our dinner (He’s better at it than me, anyway). </p><p>“Hello, you,” Daphne smiles, scooping a mush of baby-food off of one of the twin’s chins (I find it impossible to tell them apart when they’re not in their colour-coordinated clothing, although she always manages to, somehow). “Your dinner is in the oven- I wasn’t sure how long you’d be, so I thought I’d keep it warm. There’s dessert in there, too … If you’d like. Your favourite.” </p><p>I scrunch up my face, awkwardly.</p><p>“Cheers.”</p><p>“No problem. So … How is it going? How's <em>Simon?”</em></p><p>“Good,” I drawl, suspiciously. “We’re only playing on the PS.” </p><p>“Okay,” she shrugs. "I was just wondering.” </p><p>I turn, scrambling with the casserole dishes, and hurrying over to the door, hoping to nip this mortifying line of conversation in the bud. </p><p>“Hey what!” Mordelia shouts, finally looking up from her plate. “How come <em>he</em> gets to eat in his room? That’s not fair! If he gets to, why don’t I?” </p><p>I falter, my hand on the door - Freedom laying tantalisingly close. </p><p>“Because,” I spit. “I have a friend over. When you have friends over, I’m sure Mum will let you, too.”</p><p>Daphne nods in confirmation. “Let Basil get on with his dinner, Mordie.” </p><p>She crumples up her face, angrily, apparently dissatisfied with the idea. <em>Oh, Christ, here we go! </em></p><p>“Does <em>Dad</em> know about your friend?” She presses, an sinful tinge to her voice. </p><p>My shoulders drop, instantly. <em> Shit. </em>Of <em>fucking </em>course. </p><p><em> “Don’t </em> tell him,” I command, sternly. </p><p>“Why not?” </p><p>I press a fist to my forehead, in irritation.</p><p>“He doesn’t like my friend. <em>Okay?” </em></p><p>“Why?” she coaxes. “Are they a girl.” </p><p>“No,” I sigh. “Obviously not. Look, I really don’t have time for this. Just … What will it take for you to keep your mouth shut?” </p><p>She grins, manically. Even though she’s just a child, she’s already<em> worryingly</em> devious (I suppose, in that respect, she takes after me). </p><p><em> “You </em> … Have to help me with my violin practice, this week,” she chirps. </p><p>I think of her horrifically, screechy <em>'playing'</em> with dread, and look over to Daphne for help - Her perfectly painted lips, pulled taut, into a poorly suppressed smile. <em> For God’s sake! </em> </p><p>While I <em> do </em> enjoy spending time with her, I’d <em> really </em> rather skip the whole <em>violin tutorial</em> element of her bargain. Although, I suppose, a short-term earache, is a small price to pay for avoiding Father’s acrid disapproval. </p><p>So, <em>loathfully,</em> I agree - Storming out of the kitchen, and jogging back upstairs, in a rush. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>I peek a glance around Baz’s head, staring over at the casserole dish on his dresser. </p><p>“Do you normally have dessert?” I ask, innocently, shovelling the final spoonful of Shepherd's pie into my mouth. </p><p>“Not normally, no,” he laughs. “Although, I made sure that Daphne made one, especially for you. Which I <em>think</em> you may have suspected, given that you’ve been gawping over at it for the last five minutes."</p><p>I scrub the back of my neck, and chuckle awkwardly, embarrassingly exposed.</p><p>He flashes me a smile, mercifully free of mocking. </p><p>“I can get you a serving now, if you’d like?”</p><p>I <em> definitely </em> would like. Although, Baz <em> still </em> hasn’t finished his main - So, I should probably wait (Penny said it’s rude to make people feel like they have to rush their meal).</p><p>“Oh no. It’s alright,” I murmur. “I’d rather wait a minute.”</p><p>A knowing smirk spreads across his face, and an eyebrow raises, suspiciously. </p><p>I wish that I could do that - The eyebrow, thing. I tried practising it in the mirror the other day, but I didn’t look all <em>cool,</em> and <em>elegant</em> like him … I just looked like a constipated twit. </p><p>“You don’t have to wait for me to finish, Snow,” he beams, his voice alluring velvety. “If you’re hungry now, then I’ll serve you up a bowl - It tastes better warm, anyway.” </p><p>“Okay,” I chirp, contented. “That’ll be perfect. Thanks.” </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>Siding his plate off of his lap, he stands, treading over to the dresser, and spooning the pudding into a bowl for me.</p><p>I try not to stare at him (I’ve been trying all day), but it’s proving increasingly difficult. </p><p>He hasn’t tied his hair up today - Leaving it free, draped in loose waves against his face. And, he’s dressed more casually than I’m used to - Having opted for a navy-blue T-shirt (Rather than his usual boxy button-ups). But, in spite of his more dressed-down style, he still looks ridiculously expensive - His jeans dark, and perfectly fitted, and a thin, silver watch glimmering against his thin wrist. </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>“Here you go,” he says, thrusting the bowl into my hand. </p><p>Excitedly, I snatch it out of his hand, and peer down into it. The look of it catches me off guard - The bowl filled to the brim with a mildly peculiar looking, light brown, slush.  </p><p>Confused, I scrunch my face up.</p><p>Baz sighs, rolling his eyes upwards, exaggeratedly. </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> That was <em> definitely </em>rude of me. </p><p>“It’s nothing sinister, Snow,” he assures. <em> “Don’t worry. </em> If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn’t waste a perfectly good dessert, on it. I’d just spike one of your scones, or something.” </p><p>I school my face back into an uncertain smile. <em> God, I’m such a dick.  </em></p><p>“No, no, sorry,” I stumble. “I didn’t mean to do <em> that. </em> It’s not <em> bad. </em> I mean … There’s nothing wrong with it. It smells <em> delicious. </em> I just … Don’t know what it is. That’s all.” </p><p>“Om Ali,” he shrugs. </p><p>I still have legitimately <em> no </em> idea what he’s talking about, but I decide to just drop it. I wasn’t lying, it really <em> does </em> smell nice - So I suppose that it hardly matters what it <em> actually </em> is. </p><p>Clearly, he sees right through me, though - Rolling his head backwards, and scoffing, dramatically. </p><p>“It’s sort of like … A Bread and butter pudding. Just with <em> proper </em> flavour ... It’s Egyptian.” </p><p>“Oh, I see,” I say, smiling, and digging my spoon into it. “Are your family like … Egyptian then?” </p><p>“Yes, Snow. My family are <em>'like'</em> Egyptian,” he drones. “Well, my Mother’s side are, anyway.”</p><p>
  <em> I really am excelling at making a twat of myself, today.  </em>
</p><p>“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to sound … I was just - Sorry. Is that your mum, then?” I ask, pointing over to the field of photo frames. “The lady in the pictures?” </p><p>“It’s fine,” he laughs, his gaze following my finger. “And, yes … That’s her.” </p><p>“She’s pretty.”</p><p>He raises his eyebrows, smirking suggestively.  </p><p>“Not like <em> that!”  </em>I splutter. <em>“Ew, no!</em> I just mean ... You look like her.” </p><p>“Yes, well, <em> funny that </em> - That <em> is </em> how genetics tend to work, Snow” </p><p>“Sod off!” I grunt. “You <em> know </em> what I mean. You look <em> nothing </em> like your dad.” </p><p>“I know, thank the merciful gods! Could you <em> imagine </em> if I'd inherited those <em> non-existent </em> cheekbones … That would be a tragedy of <em> unparalleled </em> proportions!”</p><p>I beam over at him, my eyes scrunching half-shut, as my cheeks force themselves upwards. He’s being <em> completely </em> ridiculous, but I still find myself stupidly endeared. </p><p>He looks up at me, then, and catches me smiling.</p><p>“Just get eating, you divvy,” he chastises, scowling at me fiercely. “You barely <em> breathed </em> between mouthfuls, earlier, and now, suddenly, you’re Mr. Chatterbox ... It <em> really </em> is nicer warm, you know.” </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>He doesn’t have to tell me twice - Plunging my spoon into the bowl, I scoop up the largest mouthful possible, and take a bite. It’s slightly unusual (And <em> much </em> crunchier than I was initially expecting), but <em> so, so good </em> - <em>Filled</em> with <em>intoxicatingly</em> sweet coconut and raisin. </p><p>“Oh my god,” I moan, unable to find the words to convey how <em>fucking</em> <em>delicious</em> it is. </p><p>He simpers over at me, clearly pleased with himself (Even though he didn't make it).</p><p>“I <em>know.</em> I <em> did </em> tell you it was good … It was actually my favourite dessert, as a kid. My mum used to make it for me every Saturday, as a treat.” </p><p>“Does she still make it for you?” I ask, the words slurring in my food-stuffed mouth. </p><p>Something awful flashes across his eyes, the smug look wiped clean from his face, immediately. <em> Oh, God. What have I done now?  </em></p><p>“Uh no. Not anymore,” he mumbles, staring down at his bedsheets, blankly. “My mum, she ... Passed away when I was around five. Car accident.” </p><p><em> Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m such a moron. </em> I'd just assumed his parents were divorced, and that his mum lived in some other mansion, down the road, or something. Not <em> that. </em> I never even <em> considered that.  </em></p><p>“I’m sorry,” I breathe. </p><p>“It’s alright. You weren’t to know.”</p><p>“I know, but still … <em> I really am sorry.” </em></p><p>“Hey. Come on now, Snow. There’s no need to get all gloomy,” he smiles. It’s a shadow of his proper smile, hollow and painted-on - Although, I can hardly fault him for that. “I didn’t<em> 'go all awkward' </em> on you, the other day, so <em> don’t </em> do it to me. That would just be <em> terribly </em> hypocritical, of you!”</p><p>“Okay. I won’t. <em> Promise.” </em></p><p> </p><p>We sit in silence for a while after that. </p><p>I occupy myself with the dessert, while he just sits there, scraping his fork over the top of his mash, aimlessly. Regretfully, I think that my line of questioning may have killed his appetite. But, I’ve still got some scones left, so if he gets hungry again, later, we can just share those. </p><p>I snatch a glance at him, in my periphery vision. He’s got his brow tugged down, and he's scrunching his lips up on either side of his face, alternatively.</p><p>I’m pretty sure he’s thinking, so I just sit there munching, quietly - Patiently, waiting for him to speak (I've learned my lesson. Anything <em>I</em>  could say, would probably just make matters worse). </p><p>
  
</p><p>He clears his throat, with a stifled cough, and then he’s talking again - His voice, barely a whisper. </p><p>“When Daphne found out about it (The dessert thing, I mean), she bought herself some Egyptian cookbook, and taught herself how to make it. It’s not quite the same, since my Mother used some family recipe she had memorised, but … It still reminds me of her. It was lovely of her, really, but, when I was little, I used to get <em> so mad </em> at her for making it. I’d always pretend that I didn’t want it, but when I thought everybody was asleep, I’d always sneak downstairs and steal myself a bowl. It makes no sense, but I just - Always thought that she was … Trying to replace her, or something. And, you know, <em> nobody </em> could replace her. <em> Not ever.” </em></p><p>He looks at me then, his grey eyes stormy, and flooded with tears. His lips pulled into a hard, stony frown, and his jaw taut with tension. </p><p>I gulp, miserably. I don’t know what to do. I didn’t <em> mean </em> to upset him - I’d <em> never </em> mean to upset him. I just … <em> Wish </em> I’d never said anything. </p><p>Leaning forwards, I grab his hand - Slotting our fingers together, and squeezing lightly, in an attempt to comfort him. I’ve never really been the best at physical affection (Being unused to it, it always made me feel clumsy, and weird. Sort of like my skin didn’t fit right), but it’s easier with him. <em> Everything </em> is easier with him. </p><p>He smiles, meekly, clenching my hand back, and pressing on with what he has to say. </p><p>“One day, when I was around fourteen, I confronted her about it. I was <em> properly awful, </em> screaming at her in the kitchen like some spoiled <em>brat,</em> throwing it all right back in her face. But, you know, I was … Well, I don’t <em>know</em> what I was. Just … Not good. I hadn’t been for a long time, either, so I just <em> - Snapped. </em> Accusing her of trying to replace Mother, and yelling at her for even <em>daring</em> to make it. I went so far as to say that she did it on <em> purpose, just </em> to upset me. I mean, can you <em>imagine?”</em> </p><p>He snickers, mirthlessly - Wounded, and weak. </p><p>“I probably deserved a slap, to be honest, but she didn’t even raise her voice. She just hugged me - Even after I tried to fight her off ... Eventually, I just gave up, and sobbed against her chest. It was all <em>very dramatic,</em> and I can’t imagine how <em> pitiful </em> I must’ve looked. But, afterwards, I felt … Better. Not <em> fixed. </em> I don’t think I can ever be <em> fixed. </em> Something like <em> that, </em> I don’t think that it ever goes away - Not fully, anyway. But, I think that … At that moment, that's what I needed the most - To just … Let go. It had been a long time coming.”</p><p>I nod my head, affirmatively, just to let him know that I was still listening.</p><p>“Later on, when I’d calmed down a little, she told me that she knew that I used to eat it, secretly - That she’d always known. She apologised (Even though she <em>really </em> had no reason to), and explained to me that she was only trying to help. I think that, deep down, I’d always known that ... I just wanted somebody to be angry at. And you know what’s funny?” He asks. </p><p>I shake my head. </p><p>“Nobody else in the house even <em>likes</em> the bloody thing! She used to just throw a few portions in the bin, so that I’d feel safe to go and steal mine (Under the impression that, nobody would notice a little bit extra going missing).”</p><p>I smile, cautiously, tracing a finger against the inside of his palm. </p><p>“I was so <em>cruel,</em> Snow. So <em> bitter, </em> and broken, that I’d torn her apart, when <em> all </em> she wanted to do was <em> help me. </em> I didn’t speak to her for <em> days, </em> after that. I mean, how <em> could </em> I, after I’d been so <em> awful </em> to her? And, I stopped eating the Om Ali, all together. I didn’t deserve it, anymore - Didn’t deserve the joy that it brought me. I thought … If my Mother could’ve seen me, she’d have been so ashamed of what I’d become - Of <em> who </em> I’d become. Like I said, it was always intended as a treat - And ... Bad people don’t deserve good things -” </p><p>I interrupt him then, unable to listen to him berate himself, further. </p><p>“Please don’t say that, Baz,” I plead. “I know, I don’t know her, but … It’s obvious she loved you, dearly. She <em> would’ve </em> understood. It was a <em> mistake. </em> You’re <em> not </em> a bad person, you were just … Hurting.” </p><p>He nods, wordlessly. I don’t know if that means he agrees, or he’s just acknowledging what I said, but he clearly doesn’t want to speak - So, I don’t ask. </p><p>“She still made it, every few weeks or so, in that hopes that I’d crack. She <em> even </em> still threw half of it away! And then, you know, on my mum’s birthday she snuck one up into my bedroom, for me. She looked so hopeful, and I just wanted to make her happy, again - So ... I took it. I <em> gorged </em> myself that night - Ate the <em> whole </em>thing, in one sitting (I’m surprised I didn’t hurl, to be honest)."</p><p>He lets out a watery laugh, then, his eyes damp, but a slight, genuine smile breaking across his face. Hesitantly, I mirror him, grinning back, shyly. </p><p>He huffs in a shaky breath, and grips my palm tighter. </p><p>“It was <em> amazing. </em> I'd denied myself it for so long, as a sort of penance. And I <em> still </em> wasn’t sure that I <em> actually </em> deserved it, but it was <em>so, so good</em> to finally have it back. To have a piece of <em> her </em> back.”</p><p>I stare at him, unsure of what to say. </p><p>“Anyway,” he laughs, his voice splintered. “I don’t even <em> know </em> why I’m even telling you all of this … There’s me lecturing you about getting gloomy, and then I go and start <em> bloody weeping! </em> Do forgive me.” </p><p>“There’s nothing to forgive,” I shrug. “I like … Knowing about you. I want to know things about you.”</p><p>“I see … Well, I promise you that the rest isn’t so dreary.” </p><p>“Even if it was, I’d still want to hear it. It’s still <em> you.” </em></p><p>He smiles properly then, the reddened skin surrounding his eyes crinkling, slightly. </p><p>“Yes, well,” he murmurs, tearing his hand from mine, and reaching up to scrub at his eyes. “We’ll save all of <em> that </em> for another day. Want to play some FIFA, or something? I fancy beating you again.” </p><p>Truthfully, I don't, and I don't think that he does either - But, I can tell that he needs the distraction, so I agree. </p><p>I mean, there are definitely worse things to do. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We’ve been playing for about two hours, when Baz flops back against the sofa, dragging his hands down his face, tiredly. </p><p>“I’m going to go and get ready for bed,” he sighs, his voice still a little rough from earlier.  </p><p>Despite my initial reluctance, I don't want to stop playing. I mean, it’s only just gone Ten, and I’m <em> finally </em> winning - Four matches to two (I may, or may not have, forced the lads to play with me everyday, since I last saw him, as practice). </p><p>“But I-”</p><p>“Hey,” he interrupts. “Quit complaining. I <em> saw </em>you yawning, Snow. We can play more tomorrow.” </p><p>Displeased, but unwilling to argue, I nod my head. I suppose that, as long as he doesn’t <em> actually </em> intend to go to sleep <em> right now, </em> it doesn’t really matter - Mostly, I just want to talk to him (Beating him at his own game while doing so is just a nice, little bonus). </p><p>“I’ll be fifteen minutes, okay?” </p><p>“Okay,” I sing.</p><p>I don’t trust that timescale, for a <em>second - But, </em>I’ll tease him about <em>that</em> later.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Unsurprisingly, he takes <em> ages </em> in the bathroom (Even though all he <em>really</em> needs to do is brush his teeth).</p><p>When he eventually reemerges, the familiar scent of Cedar and Bergamot fills the room, although <em> that </em> is not what I pay attention to. What <em> I </em> pay attention to, is what he’s <em> wearing - </em>A set of long, silky, maroon pyjamas, decorated with a deep blue piping. </p><p>I let out a wild cackle, clapping a hand over my mouth, in a failed attempt to try and contain it. </p><p>“What?” He asks, indignantly. “What the fuck are you laughing at?” </p><p>I pause, still desperately trying to stifle my laughter. </p><p>“What the fuck are you wearing?” </p><p>“Pyjamas,” he deadpans, scowling slightly.</p><p>I laugh, gesturing toward him vaguely.</p><p>“But I mean … <em>Really?” </em></p><p>“Yes <em> really, </em> Snow. Why? What do <em> you </em> wear that’s <em> so much </em> better?” </p><p>“Boxers,” I shrug. </p><p>He snaps his head down towards the floor, clearly embarrassed. </p><p><em> Whoops. </em>I sort of forgot about that, to be honest. It probably would’ve been polite to bring a pair of trackies to sleep in, or something (Even though, they'd only make me overheat). </p><p>“Right well … I get cold. So, I wear clothes, like a <em> normal </em> person … Now <em> quit </em> being a prick, and go and brush your teeth.”  </p><p>“Okay, grandpa” I giggle. </p><p>He shoots me a warning look, his eyes piercing into me, fiercely. </p><p>Alarmed, I dart towards the safety of the en-suite, slamming the door behind me, and guffawing absurdly. </p><p>“Stop laughing right <em> now, </em> you nightmare!" He shouts, bashing against the door, angrily. "Or else, I’ll make you sleep in the garden!”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Luckily for me, Baz didn’t <em> actually </em> make me sleep outside. Although, the spare room he <em> does </em>put me in, is hardly any better.</p><p>It’s <em>bitterly</em> cold, and the bed is <em> covered </em> in these <em> horrific, </em> carved gargoyles, whose eyes stalk me around the room (Well, maybe not, really - But it definitely feels like they do!).</p><p>I thought he was having me on, at first, but one look at his stupid, smug face, showed me that he was (Unfortunately) <em> deadly </em> serious. </p><p>I’m just about to text him to voice my complaints (Manners be damned!), when I hear it - An awful, shivering wail. Because, of course, out of all of the rooms in this <em>shithole,</em> Baz just <em>had</em> to put me in the one that's fucking <em>haunted! </em></p><p>Petrified, I bury my head beneath the starchy, old duvet, and pray for safety. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>It’s barely twenty minutes before there is a timid knock at my door. My little plot having, seemingly, worked perfectly. </p><p>Smiling to myself, I pad over to the door and pull it open as quietly as I can manage (It still creaks, gratingly, but I at least tried). </p><p>And there he his - <em>Simon Snow.</em> Standing on my doorstep, his hair mussed, and a blanket pulled over his shoulders like a cloak (Apparently, he wasn't kidding about the boxers thing, then).</p><p>He looks a little ridiculous, to be honest, but that doesn’t stop the swelling in my chest. </p><p>“Your house is haunted,” he whines. </p><p>“No it <em>isn’t,</em> Snow. Don’t be <em>ridiculous.</em> It’s just old.” </p><p>“Nu-uh … It’s haunted. There were all these creepy wailing sounds.” </p><p>“That’ll be the pipes,” I deadpan. “Somebody probably just ... Used a tap, or something.” </p><p>“Well … It’s weirdly cold in there - Like there is a ghostly presence.” </p><p>I shake my head, amused. </p><p>“Yeah, <em>that's</em> down to the practically non-existent central heating. Like I said … The house is <em>old.”</em></p><p>“Whatever,” he huffs. “Can I just … Sleep in here, with you. I’m too creeped out to go back in there, alone!” </p><p>I roll my eyes in faux displeasure, and step to the side. </p><p>“Come on in then, <em>coward.</em> I’ll protect you from that <em> dastardly </em> pipework.” </p><p>“Just shut up,” he mumbles, shuffling into the room, and plopping himself down onto my bed. </p><p>He stares down at his hands, picking at his nails, savagely. </p><p>“Do you - Do you want me to sleep on the sofa, or something?” </p><p>My throat constricts, purposelessly, as I swallow down a nervous lump. I <em> definitely </em> didn’t think this through, properly.</p><p>“Up to you,” I drone, moulding my voice into a cool, nonchalance. </p><p>“It might ... Be warmer if we’re both in your bed,” he breathes, his voice so quiet that it’s barely audible. </p><p>“Sure. That makes sense,” I shrug. “Just get in, then.”</p><p> </p><p>Tip-toeing across the room, I slide into bed besides him, and stare up at my canopy, expressionless. </p><p>“Baz,” he whispers, turning his body to face mine. </p><p>I mimic him, immediately - Rolling onto my side, to face him. His eyes are wide, with barely a slither of blue still visible - His pupils fully dilated in the dimness of the room. </p><p>“Hmmm,” I hum. </p><p>“Do you like ... <em>Anybody?”</em></p><p>I puff out a breath, shaking my head in disbelief. </p><p>“Yes, Snow. <em> Obviously, </em> I like <em> some </em> people.” I answer, tartly. </p><p>“No, you <em> dick. </em>You know what I <em>mean!</em> Do you … 'Like like' anyone?” </p><p>“Oh wow,” I sneer. <em> “'Like like', Really? </em> What are we <em> twelve? </em> I can go and fetch Mordelia, if you’d like. I’m sure she’d be <em> very </em> interested in this conversation.” </p><p>“Just answer the question, you knob,” he groans, shoving the hell of his palm into my shoulder blade, painfully. </p><p>“Alright, alright,” I laugh. “Yes, Snow. I <em> 'Like like' </em>someone … How about you?” </p><p>“Yeah,” he huffs, his eyes fluttering shut, and a soft smile gracing his face. </p><p>My stomach twists uncomfortably, as bitter jealousy pulls at my gut. </p><p>“What’s he like, then? - The guy you like.” </p><p>I scan my eyes across his face, taking him in properly - His stubby, bronze lashes, the slight rosy tinge of his full cheeks, the perfect constellation of moles that adorn practically every inch of skin. He’s perfect. Indescribably perfect.</p><p>“I don’t know,” I whisper, my voice pinched. </p><p>He opens his eyes then, beaming over at me, cheerfully. My chest swells, pitifully, at the sight of him. Drenched in moonlight, he’s the Sun - Bright, and warm, and beautiful. And, <em> painfully </em>untouchable. </p><p>“You <em> must </em> know,” he titters. </p><p>“Well, yes. <em> Obviously. </em> They’re just - It’s just hard to put into words.” </p><p>“Oh wow! The great <em>Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch</em> speechless, they <em> must </em>be special!”</p><p>“They are,” I reply, thoughtlessly. </p><p>His eyebrows jump upwards, clearly shocked by my earnestness. </p><p>“I see,” he drawls. “And have you known Mr. Special long?” </p><p>My heart stutters within my chest. I'm walking on <em>dangerously</em> thin ice, here. </p><p>“No. Not really. How about you? Have you known your person long?”</p><p>“Guy,” He rushes, his tone urgent. “They’re a guy,” </p><p>“Okay,” I whisper. “Have you known your<em> guy </em> long?” </p><p>“Nope. But, that doesn’t really matter … Does it?” </p><p>“Not really, no … <em>I</em> don’t think so, anyway.”</p><p>He smiles softly, then, but his brow quickly follows, furrowing conflictingly. He looks - Well, I don’t know how he looks. Disappointed? Pained? Worrying his lip, he screws his eyes shut, firmly. </p><p>My eyes dart across his face, madly, desperately trying to read him. </p><p>“Snow,” I call, poking a finger to the inside of his wrist. “Are you alright?” </p><p>Opening his eyes slowly, he sucks in a breath, and lifts his lips, weakly. </p><p>“I’m good. It’s good. I’m just -” </p><p>He sighs, frustrated, tugging at the curls that lay over his forehead, roughly. </p><p>“I don’t know. I just … Don’t know how to say it.” </p><p>I nod slightly, my pillow crinkling beneath me. </p><p>“Okay. Just take your time.”</p><p>"I don't think - I mean, I don't think that rushing is what's wrong. I can ... Maybe try and show you, instead. If you'd like?" </p><p>“Sure?” I answer, my voice creeping with uncertainty. “Whatever is easiest for you.” </p><p>Trembling slightly, he reaches forwards, timidly, and carefully tucks a wave of hair behind my ear.</p><p>My breath stills, as my treacherous body tenses up, defensively. </p><p>“Okay?” he whispers. </p><p>I nod, not trusting my voice. </p><p>He huffs out a breath, relieved, and reaches up, laying his hand against my cheek, properly. Tracing his thumb along the high-point of my cheekbone, softly. </p><p>His eyes trail downwards, tantalisingly slow - His gaze, impossibly hot, as it lands on my lips. </p><p>My heart skips a beat - A momentary break, from the insistent careening of my pulse. </p><p>I don’t really know what I’m thinking anymore, my mind trapped in a useless haze. </p><p>It’s <em> completely </em> overwhelming - Being <em> looked </em> at like this, being <em> held </em> like this. Like I’m something <em> precious. </em> Like I’m something <em> worthy</em>. Like I’m something … <em> Loveable. </em> </p><p>He must know - <em>Surely, </em>he must see it. His touch rendering my utterly defenceless, it must be written all over me, the truth of my affections tattooed across my skin, clear as day. </p><p>He’s right there, his face mere inches from mine. His hand resting against me, warm and reassuring.</p><p>I think I might do it. Just forget words, forget an explanation, forget caution, and <em> just do it. </em> Just end this <em> exhausting </em>charade and kiss him. </p><p>“Simon, I -”</p><p>And then <em> he </em> kisses <em> me</em>. Surging forwards, and crashing our lips together desperately. </p><p>For a moment, I freeze, stunned into stillness by the newness of it all. But then, instinct takes over, and I’m kissing him back - Sliding my lips against his, hungrily.</p><p>I have <em> no </em> idea what I’m doing, but doesn’t seem to mind - Humming against my lips, contentedly, his hands clasping at my hair.</p><p>He just his chin forwards, confidently, and I feel it everywhere - My body thrumming with his fire, from my tingling lips, to the white-hot heat, stirring deep within my stomach. It’s a wild push and pull, and I take everything he has to give me, willingly - Savouring each and every spark, greedily. </p><p>Utterly blissed out, and unstoppably happy, I smile against his lips, helplessly. </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>He pulls away, giggling breathlessly - Grinning down at me, his hair hassled, and his cheeks flushed.</p><p>Pushing my shoulder lightly, he presses me down into the mattress, and clambers on top of me, clumsily. Holding himself up above me, before leaning down and pushing his face into the crook of my neck - Nipping at the skin there, teasingly. </p><p>“I cant keep doing it if you keep smiling, idiot” he sing-songs, the deep gruff of his voice vibrating against my neck. “As much as I like you, I don’t <em>really</em> wanna kiss your teeth.” </p><p>Still floating, I laugh openly, my heart squeezing within my chest. </p><p>“It’s not <em> my </em> fault,” I mumble, leaning upwards, and pressing a chaste kiss to his exposed collarbone. </p><p>“Hmmm,” he hums, cradling the back of my head in his hands. “Whose fault is it, then?” </p><p> Refusing to answer, I stare at him - His eyes sparkling, and a wicked smirk, plastered across his face. </p><p>“Shut up,” I smile, rolling my eyes jokingly.</p><p>“You’re gonna have to make me.”</p><p>I raise my eyebrows, suggestively, reaching up and tugging him down towards me by the back of his neck. Our lips mere millimetres apart, I whisper against him, coquettishly.</p><p>“Oh. I <em> will. </em> Rest assured, when I’m finished with you, you’ll <em>barely</em> be able to string a sentence together.”</p><p>Puffing out a shaky breath, he trembles against me - A needy whine escaping his lips, as he does so. </p><p>I did that to him. <em>Me. </em> <em> Fucking marvellous.  </em></p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>Wonderfully pleased, I snake my arms up his body, pulling him forwards, minimally, and claiming his lips with mine once more. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>I’m sat propped up against the headboard, now (Snow pulled me up a while ago, grumbling about how I was 'Too far away'). He’s seated himself atop my thighs, our hands laced together between us, and his mouth working against mine, insistently.</p><p>I don’t know how long we’ve been wrapped up in each other (Long enough that my leg is prickling through lack of movement), but I’m <em>certainly</em> not complaining. </p><p>Shifting backwards, he beams over at me, a playful glint, sparkling in his eyes.</p><p>Enraptured, I trail my eyes over him, appreciatively, my gaze falling on his neck. Reaching a hand upwards, I circle a thumb over the small, red mark, blooming against the fair skin, a strange sense of pride welling up within me, as I do so.  I hadn't set out to do it (Starting off with completely innocent intentions, I'd <em>only</em> hoped to press a kiss to a particularly appealing mole), but I’d quickly gotten carried away, his breathy huffs urging me ever onwards. </p><p>With a chaste kiss to my brown bone, he rolls his hips down against mine, just-so - The friction eliciting a pathetically needy moan, from me. I grip his hips, tightly - Pressing my fingers into the softness of his side. </p><p>Humiliated, I thunk my head down against his shoulder, hiding my face away, as it fills with a burning heat. </p><p>“Eager,” he giggles, his lips moving upwards, brushing against the peak of my forehead. </p><p>I pinch his thigh, lightly, in retaliation - Simon yelping against me, in surprise. </p><p>“Unless you want to discuss what’s currently pressed against my thigh, I <em> suggest </em> that you shut up! Otherwise, you can sleep <em>alone,”</em> I threaten. </p><p>“No, Baz,” he cries, throwing himself down onto the bed besides me. “You can’t do that to me. I’ve been<em> proper </em> nice to you, <em> all </em>night!” </p><p>I flip onto my side, so that I’m facing him, again - Apparently incapable of keeping my eyes off of him, for even a minute. </p><p>“I'm <em>pretty</em> sure that I <em>can." </em></p><p>His shoulders drop slightly, as his hand pats along the bed in search of mine. </p><p>“Yeah, but ... You wouldn’t, though. Would you?”</p><p>“No, Snow,” I breathe, weaving our hands together. “I wouldn't.” </p><p>Harumphing, he pouts his lips outwards, sulkily. </p><p>“What?” I chuckle, pushing myself up onto my arm, and leaning over him. “I thought you didn’t <em> want </em> me to.” </p><p>“Yeah but - You called me Simon before.”  </p><p>I press out foreheads together, helplessly charmed. </p><p>“No, I never,” I argue - Because, despite all my <em> unforgivable </em> softness this evening, I’m still me. <em>Irritatingly</em> petty, to a fault.</p><p>“You definitely did.”</p><p>“Hmmm,” I hum, airly. “Well … I have no memory of it.”</p><p>He scoffs then, rolling his eyes, and peppering a flurry of kisses against my jaw. </p><p>“You <em> definitely </em> <em>did.</em> But ... No worry - Deny it all you want. I’ll get you to say it again, soon enough. I just need to soften you up,” he shrugs. “And <em>that</em> is easy, enough - A couple of snogs here and there, and hey presto ... I’ll get myself another 'Simon'”</p><p>I wince at his awful imitation of my accent. I don't know why he even <em>bothers</em> trying, with it - He always just ends up sounding like a drunken Prince Charles impersonator.</p><p>He chortles, bright and joyous, but is interrupted by a long, gasping yawn. </p><p><em>“Tired, Snow?”</em> I goad. </p><p>He nods, smiling lopsidedly. </p><p>“Didn’t get much sleep last night.”</p><p>“Why ever not?” I pry.</p><p>“Nervous … You know - About this,” he murmurs, stroking the pad of his thumb against my lower lip.</p><p>My chest swoops joyfully, an unbridled grin breaking across my face.</p><p>Pursing my lips, and kissing his thumb, quickly, I reach down, and slot my hand into his. Interlocking our fingers, I drag our joined hands down, underneath the duvet, and spread his palm flat against my left breast. </p><p>He giggles lightly, pushing upwards, and pecking the tip of my nose. </p><p>“Your heart’s going super fast,” he breathes. </p><p>“Yes, well. You <em> are </em>aware of what we’ve been doing for the past … I don’t know how long.”</p><p>“Uh huh, I’m aware,” he affirms, the smugness plain in his voice. “It’s okay - Mine is, too.” </p><p>“Is that so?” </p><p>He nods, driving forwards, and pressing our lips together, once more. It’s slower this time, although no less exhilarating, his lips moving against mine, languidly - Our frantic desperation, replaced by a slower, sweeter indulgence. </p><p>I sigh, joyfully, luxuriating in the feeling of him against me. Melting into his touch, I’m putty in his hands - Open and relaxed. My heart feels exposed - Beating proudly, unprotected outside of the walls of my chest. But, I’m not afraid. I know he’ll treat it tenderly. </p><p>Snaking his free hand upwards, he tugs against my hair, enticingly. Moaning against his lips quietly, my stomach sparks with heat, once again.</p><p>Despite my eagerness to continue, I'm increasingly conscious of the hours slipping away from us, and so pull backwards, mournfully - Lifting my hips away from his, to remove temptation. </p><p>“Enough of that, you <em>insatiable</em> thing,” I chide, twisting a bronze curl around my finger, absentmindedly. “We’re going to have to wake up early, to put you back in the right bed, in case Daphne decides to check. And, if we don’t stop now, I’m not sure we’ll <em>ever</em> get to sleep.” </p><p>He huffs petulantly, his eyebrows pinched, and his lips pulling into a deep frown. I shake my head at him, unimpressed. </p><p>“Fine,” he whines. “Just - Roll over then.” </p><p>“What?” I cough, flustered. </p><p>“I <em> said </em> - Roll over. I wanna cuddle you.” </p><p><em> “Oh my god.</em><em> 'Wanna cuddle you',”</em> I groan, disdainfully. <em>“Seriously?” </em></p><p>“Yes <em> seriously, </em> you <em>wanker.</em> Don’t pretend you don’t want to. It’s <em> definitely </em> a too late for you to start playing hard to get, Baz.” </p><p>Called out, I abandon my false protests, twisting onto my side, and wordlessly surrendering to what I want. </p><p>Wrapping a strong arm around my waist, he pulls me backwards slightly, and tucks me against his body, neatly. </p><p>With my face hidden from view, I smile, privately - The simple innocence of having him besides me, embarrassingly thrilling. </p><p>“G’night, Baz,” he mumbles, drowsily, blessing my shoulder with a feather-light kiss. </p><p>Uncontrollably lovestruck, I decide to indulge him (And, if I’m being honest, myself). </p><p>“Goodnight, <em>Simon,” I coo.“</em>Sleep well.” </p><p> </p><p>With his smile against my skin, I flutter my eyes shut, and snuggle against him. Unfamiliarly content, I succumb to sleep, quickly - My mind blissfully quiet, and my heart seeped in love.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Another Chance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Once again, I must apologise for my pitifully slow updating schedule :,) But here it is, the final chapter of A Smashing Summer.<br/>This definitely isn't my best work, but after writing and rewriting it about 4-5 times, this is the best version I could create (But maybe one day, I'll come back and brush it up!).<br/>I just want to say a huge thank you to everybody who has read so far, all the comments and kudos on this fic have been so, so lovely to receive!<br/>So ... I hope you enjoy the conclusion (Flawed and disjointed, as it may be!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>I’m abruptly awoken by the tinny shrill of his alarm, screaming into my ear. <em> Bloody fucking thing!  </em></p><p>Groaning, I pat under the pillow, blindly. Grabbing a hold of his phone, and switching it off; the room falling back into a blissful calm. </p><p>Blinking the drowsiness from my eyes, I look over him, his figure drenched in the lilac twilight. He’s definitely awake (his breath no longer coming out in slow, heavy puffs), but the traces of sleep still remain - His features softened and flat, and his hair laying in a delightfully tousled mess. For all his usual sharpness, he looks painfully sweet like this - Imperfect and honest. (Although, I'd never tell him that. He’d only be a prat about it).</p><p>Watching him, and an unnameable feeling rises up within me, clasping at my throat, and flooding my chest - The warmth of happiness, with an undeniable hint of self-satisfied cockiness. <em>I finally did it. He’s finally mine.</em> Or, well, I think so, at least. </p><p>I don’t think that he’d ever kissed anyone before yesterday. Not in a mean way, of course. It was perfect, everything was perfect. It’s just that he seemed a little … Tense - Like he was unsure of what to do, like he was afraid of what he wanted. So … I figure, it must’ve at least meant <em> something </em> to him, if he was willing to give that away. I doubt he’d go so far just for shits and giggles. </p><p>Or, I hope wouldn't, anyway. I don’t know what I’d do, otherwise. Because it definitely meant something to me. And, in my ever growing experience, <em> something </em> with Baz is next to impossible to ignore - He’s all consuming. </p><p> </p><p>Pawing at his shoulder, I turn him over, and lay myself against him, slowly. He follows my movements, easily, sliding a hand into my hair, and twirling my curls between his finger, absentmindedly - His eyes still held shut. </p><p>Contented, I snuggle closer, pressing my ear flush against his skin, until I can hear the booming rhythm of his heart. It’s faster than usual (Again). And, while I <em>try</em> not to let that joyous revelation go to my head, I can’t deny the pride blooming within me, at the thought of it. </p><p>“Simon,” he croaks - His still sleep-affected voice, coming out in a low, sultry grumble. Which is, like, <em>properly</em> fit - My mind wandering to somewhat ... Inappropriate places, at the sound of it. </p><p>“Hmmm,” I hum.</p><p>“You’ve got to go back to your own bed.” </p><p>“Don’t wanna,” I protest, gripping his waist tighter. </p><p>Sighing, he slides a hand down my arm, prying his fingertips away from him. </p><p>“Uh huh. Sorry, Snow. As much as I’m enjoying being squeezed to death, I’d rather not have to try and explain to Daphne why you’ve snuck yourself into my bed. She might think that we were <em> up </em> to something.” </p><p>“I’m not sure that we weren’t, to be fair,” I giggle. </p><p>“Is that so?”</p><p>“I think you know that it is. Don’t try and play coy, muppet.” </p><p>Smirking slightly, he lolls his head down, and presses a quick kiss to my lips - Light and unhurried.</p><p>“Go on," he prods, pulling away from me. "Off with you." </p><p>Unsatisfied, I crawl on top of him, shaking my head. Sliding a hand against his jaw, I tilt his head upwards, and stare down at him, intently. </p><p>Resting his hands on my hips, he grins up at me, toothily, the corners of his eyes wrinkling, mildly. </p><p>Pleased, I kiss him properly, my lips searing against his, as he sighs, contentedly - His body flopping, boneless against the sheets. </p><p>But, much to my disappointment, he only allows us a <em>tragically</em> brief moment of bliss, before he's shoving my shoulders back and pushing me off of him again. </p><p>“You’re <em> insatiable,” </em> he huffs, laughter poking at his words. “Come on, Snow. You <em> really </em> do have to go and get back in your bed. If we start doing … <em>T</em><em>hat </em> again, we’re just going to lose track of time.”</p><p>As much as I hate to admit it, I know he’s right - Last night went by in a complete blur. Who know's how long we were going at it for - Minutes, hours, millennia? It would've all felt the same to me. I had <em>much</em> more important things to focus on (Like the breathy little sounds Baz let out when I started working on his neck). </p><p>“Fine,” I moan, slipping out of the bed, begrudgingly. “See you later, then”</p><p>Glancing over at me, he shakes his head with a roll of his eyes. </p><p>"Oh don't start pouting, Snow. I’ll see you again soon - It’s not like I’m dying! Just ... Come here,” he says, beckoning me forwards with a quirk of his finger. </p><p>I oblige, thoughtlessly - As if enthralled. And he pulls himself upwards, quickly, taking me by the back of the neck, and dragging my head down to his level. With his breath fluttering against me, he presses a lingering kiss to my temple, before releasing me, once again. </p><p>“Goodnight, Simon. I’ll see you soon.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Baz,” I answer, the words latching in my throat, and coming out in a whisper. “See you soon.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>With my mind still reeling, I lay perfectly still, my eyes clenched shut in a desperate attempt to trick my body into a few more hours of much-needed sleep. When my phone starts buzzing, knocking against my bedside cabinet, noisily.</p><p>Alone, I smile to myself. <em>It’s barely been ten minutes.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (5:16):</em> </b> <em> BAZZZZZZZZZZZZZ </em></p><p>
  <b> <em>SS (5:16): </em></b>
  <em>I’m lonely without you :( </em>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>SS (5:17): </em>
  </b>
  <em>I can’t sleeeeeep </em>
</p><p><b> <em>SS (5:17):</em> </b> <em> It’s so cold in here. Come and save me again! Plzzzz  </em></p><p>I huff out a muted laugh. <em> Doofus. </em> How I <em> ever </em> allowed myself to fall for someone so <em> utterly ridiculous, </em> is entirely beyond me (Although, realistically, I regret nothing - I’m entirely enraptured by him. By everything about him.)</p><p><b> <em>ME (5:19):</em> </b> <em> SNOWWWWW </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (5:20):</em> </b> <em> It’s 5 AM! Stfu and sleep, you clingy disaster! The sooner you do, the sooner we’ll be together again. Unconscious minutes pass MUCH quicker than conscious ones, I assure you.  </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (5:21):</em> </b> <em> Fineeee :( Imma set an alarm for 8 tho! So don't whine if I wake you up. Wanna make the most of today!  </em></p><p><b> <em>ME (5:22):</em> </b> <em> I won’t complain, don’t worry. Goodnight (again). Sleep well. Don’t let the gargoyles bite. </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (5:22): </em> </b> <em> OH GOD! Don’t remind me about them D: </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (5:23):</em> </b> <em> Goodnight Baz xxx </em></p><p><b> <em>SS (5:23):</em> </b> <em> I had to put fake text kisses cause you’re mean and won’t let me back in your room. I hope you’re happy!  </em></p><p>I most <em> certainly </em> am - Very happy, indeed. </p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>Settling myself back down, I reach across the mattress, and tug the now-free pillow over to myself. Wrapping my arms around it, tightly, I hug it to my chest, in a poor attempt to replace the soothing warmth of him besides me. It’s nowhere near as good as the real thing (Obviously), but the pillow is still inundated with the scent of him (Woody, with a hint of apple), so I make do.</p><p>
  <em> I suppose I’m not above clinginess, either.  </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>His jaw juts against mine, determinedly, and my mind hazes over; leaving me a mess of frayed nerves and tameless sparks - A brainless, inexperienced physicality.</p><p>Floating, I palm at his trembling thighs, desperately - Earning myself a <em>salacious</em> growl (A sound so downright sinful, that it really ought to be illegal to make it, when there is no opportunity for me to relieve the molten heat stirring, low in my stomach). Thrilled, I grip tighter - Seriously considering just forgetting my family, and ravishing him. When there is a sharp rap on the door, flinging me back into reality. </p><p>Panicked, I shove him off of me, roughly, with a winded "Oof". </p><p>“You’ve<em> really</em> got to stop trying to throw me on the floor every time you get spooked, you know,” he chortles, his lips ruddied and swollen. <em> Shit, shit, shit. Mine probably look the same. </em> </p><p>My hands shivering, I work on re-doing the buttons of my shirt, while Snow sits, watching and laughing. <em> Unhelpful git.  </em></p><p>“Master Basilton, I’ve brought you two your breakfast. Are you decent?” </p><p>
  <em> Vera. Fucking hell. There is absolutely nothing decent about the state of either of us! </em>
</p><p>Desperately scrubbing my mouth on the back of my sleeve, I hurry over to the door, and swing it open with enough force that she starts. </p><p>“Sorry, Vera,” I rasp, smiling forcedly. “Thank you ever so much.” </p><p>Taking the tray from her, graciously, I click the door closed and pad back over to the bed. </p><p>“What the <em> fuck </em> are you laughing at, Snow,” I grit. </p><p><em>"Master Basilton. </em> Seriously? What even <em> is </em> your family?”</p><p>“She doesn’t <em> normally </em> call me that, div. She’s only doing it because you’re here, and Father insists that she be proper around company.”</p><p>
  <em> “Sure. I believe you”  </em>
</p><p>I flash him the most disdainful glare I can muster, but the sight of him grinning over at me, just leaves me beaming (So I imagine the impact is rather reduced).</p><p>“Just shut up, you prat,” I grumble, laying the tray down at the foot of my bed. </p><p>And that’s when I see it - <em> Omelettes.  </em></p><p>In all our years together, I reckon that Daphne has made me omelettes maybe … three times? So there is <em> absolutely no way </em> that this is a coincidence. She’s <em> definitely </em> just fucking with me. </p><p>I can picture it now, her sat there nursing a tea, laughing herself silly, all at my expense. <em>The bloody cheek of it!  </em></p><p>Although, to be honest, I suppose that she <em> was </em> overly lenient with the whole “going behind your beloved husbands back, to extend your hospitality to the <em> moron </em> who egged your house, just because your stepson has a crush on him” thing. So … Maybe she’s earned the right to take the piss. Just this once. </p><p>“What’s wrong, Baz?” Snow asks, the laughter wiped clean from his voice. “You look all … Grumpy. I was only teasing about the Master thing, I do <em> actually </em> believe you, don't worry.” </p><p>I gesture down at our plates, scoffing dramatically. But he doesn't get it - Staring up at me blankly, his face crumpled with confusion. </p><p><em>“Omelettes,</em> Snow!” </p><p>“Yeah?” He drawls. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like them? … I’ll eat yours if you don’t.” </p><p>“No, Snow. I … Are you having me on?”</p><p>“No," he insists. "I don’t understand”</p><p><em> “Omelettes. </em> Made of <em> egg.” </em></p><p>“Yeah, but … You’re not vegan?”</p><p>I slap my head into my hands, laughing. </p><p>“For God’s sakes! <em> Eggs! </em> - As in the things you lobbed at our front door! ... My stepmother’s idea of a joke.” </p><p>“Wait what?!” He blusters. “She knew!”</p><p>
  <em> Oh yeah. That.  </em>
</p><p>“She wanted to know why I couldn't tell Father about you being here, and I couldn’t think of any other feasible excuse,” I explain, waving my hand dismissively. “She was fine about it, though - Thought it was rather funny, actually. So don’t go off on one, there really is no need. Everything is fine.” </p><p>He furrows his brow further, thinking to himself for a minute, before shrugging, and grabbing his plate. </p><p>“Okay. Well … I like omelette so … Who cares? Come on, Baz,” he beams, patting the space besides him on the bed. “Come and eat. I’m starving.” </p><p>“When aren’t you,” I tease, sliding up the bed, and tucking myself in, besides him. </p><p>Resting my head against his shoulder, he shimmies and arm behind me, and hugs me close to his side. My heart panging, eagerly, within my chest, at the casualness of his affection. </p><p>Just <em> yesterday, </em> an ocean of seemingly unrequited want separated us, and now we’re here. Together. Two islands joined, as if it were the simplest thing on earth.</p><p>And maybe it was. Because <em> he </em> doesn’t seem to understand the jolting unfamiliarity of it all - Falling into it expertly, as if he’d always known that we’d end up here, at the pinnacle of domestic bliss.</p><p>Maybe it was just <em>me, </em>all along- So tragically unsure of what was so plainly obvious, that I held us back. Back from <em>all of this,</em> just because I was scared. <em>Pathetic.</em></p><p>Guilt wrenching at my insides, my eyes flicker up to his face, and everything melts away - All the could haves and what ifs, blending into unimportance. Because right now he’s here, smiling over at me like I’m the world, and <em>nothing</em> could be better than this. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>I’ve got our joined hands pinned up besides his head, and I’m going my best to make him forget his own name, but his phone <em>won’t stop</em> ringing, and it’s getting unignorably irritating.   </p><p>Pulling back, I scowl down at him. His eyes darkened, and a new, sweetly dazed expression clouding over his face. </p><p>“Baz,” I mumble, pressing a kiss to the jut of his cheekbone. “Do you wanna get that? They don't seem to be stopping. It might be important.”</p><p>“Not really,” he sighs, grabbing a hold of my shoulders, encouragingly.  </p><p>“Yeah, but … They’ve rung you like four times.”</p><p>“And they can ring me four more.”</p><p><em> Stubborn. </em> Rolling my eyes, I lean over and grab the phone, myself. </p><p>“Someone called Dev?”</p><p>He nods, leaning upwards. “My cousin. Ignore him.”</p><p>“Baz,” I whine, pushing him away from me. “What if he’s in trouble, or something.”</p><p>“Then he can call Niall. Niall will answer him. Niall isn’t busy. I am.”</p><p>“How do you know?”</p><p>“Because, unless he is with Dev, Niall is never busy,” he drones. </p><p>“But … I mean, neither are you, technically. We’re just … Well I mean, if he’s hurt, or lost, or something bad like that, and we blew him of cause we were snogging, I’d feel really bad.” </p><p>He sighs, defeated. “Ever the hero. Just … Give me the bloody thing, then.” </p><p>Sliding his legs from around my waist, he flips me off of him, with a petulant huff. </p><p>“Aw. Come on, Baz,” I coo, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. “You <em>know</em> I’d rather do this. Just ... See what he wants, and then we can finish what we started, stress-free. Okay?”</p><p>Raking his hand off of me, he smirks, lightly - A tell-tale flush of colour, creeping back up his neck. </p><p>“Whatever you say, Snow,” he shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “It’s your funeral.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He’s been hammering away, angrily, at his phone screen for well over five minutes, when I decide to risk breaking the silence - My voice tumbling out, hesitant and hushed. </p><p>“Is everything okay?” </p><p>Glancing up at me, his frown softens slightly. </p><p>“Yes. Everything is <em> fine.”  </em></p><p>Shuffling closer, I reach over to him, and card a hand through his hair, the sleek strands twisting through my fingers, easily. </p><p>“No. Come on, Baz. Seriously … What’s wrong? I can tell that it's <em>something</em> - Your forehead’s gone all crinkly again, and you look … Troubled.”</p><p>“‘Troubled’,” he derides. </p><p>“Yes,<em>' troubled'</em>, you dick.” I groan, tracing a thumb over his brow. “Just ... Come on, just spit it out. Is he hurt, or something?” </p><p>His face gnarled, he kneads his forehead with his fist, in frustration - Scrubbing the tension free. </p><p>“He <em>says </em>that he has something important that he needs to tell me, urgently, but he’s <em>refusing</em> to just text it to me. Just keeps prattling on about how it’s 'not the kind of thing you tell somebody over text'”</p><p>“Oh,” I mumble, lost. </p><p>“Yes, <em> 'Oh' </em> … So, now he wants me to come down to the club, so that he can explain whatever <em>bullshit </em> it is, to me, in person.” </p><p>Bonking his head down against my shoulder with a dramatic sigh, he continues. </p><p>“And he <em> knows </em>that I’m busy today, as well. I told them <em> both </em> about this. But he still won’t just drop it. So ... I don't know, it might be serious.”</p><p>Holding my breath, I try not to cool myself down. <em>He told them about me?!  </em></p><p>I’d just assumed that <em> we </em> were supposed to be kept a secret. Not in a shame spirally way, or anything (I mean, there’s nothing wrong with making new friends … And there’s <em> definitely </em> nothing wrong with <em> snogging </em> those new friends). But just in a … ‘You and me, are to be kept separate from the rest of each other's respective individual lives’ sort of way. I don’t really know why I thought that, though, to be honest. Baz never told me to (Or even really<em> did</em> anything, to make me think that he would’ve wanted me to). And, I’d been practically <em>dying</em> to tell Penny about all the fun we’ve been having, every time she mentioned Shepard in our Skype calls (You know, as a sort of ‘Finally, me too!’). But I just … <em>Never did.</em> So to hear him say such a thing, so casually - Well … It's left my brain more than a little frazzled. </p><p>“Yeah,” I breathe. “Maybe.” </p><p>With a deep inhalation of breath, he grabs a hold of my hand, tracing my life line with his fingertip - His touch feather-light, and ticklish. </p><p>“I think I’m just going to have to go," he winces. "I’m sorry. He’s a proper stubborn <em> twat </em> when he wants to be, so I doubt he’s going to relent.”</p><p>My heart sinks within my chest, heavy with disappointment. I really <em>had</em> wanted to make the most of today. </p><p>“It’s alright, I understand,” I mumble. “Family is important.” </p><p>“So are you,” he blurts, without hesitation. </p><p>I crack a grin, then - My eyes narrowing with the force of it. He mirrors me, smiling shyly, and twisting his ring around his finger. </p><p>“You can … Come too, if you’d like. It probably won’t take long … Or I could drop you back home instead, if you’d prefer. I don’t mind.” </p><p>“Oh well … I’d rather stay with you, if that’s alright?” My voice teetering, uncertain. “I don’t mind going out.” </p><p>“Alright then. But … just to warn you though, Dev is an utter prat. My aunt and uncle were far too forgiving of him, growing up, I’m afraid.” </p><p>“I see,” I say, smirking. “Well … I’m sure that I can handle him. I’m used to you, after all.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>We’re just about to leave when Baz turns to me, his jaw falling slack and his eyes popping, cartoonishly wide. </p><p>“Shit,” he mumbles, snatching up my wrist, and tugging me back upstairs, urgently. </p><p>“What? What’s wrong? What is it?” I jumble, mildly disorientated. </p><p>He doesn’t answer me, though - Just keeps on storming up towards his bedroom. </p><p> </p><p>When the door is closed, he grips at my waist and pushes me up against the wall, holding me still against him. For a flickering moment, a surge of excitement twists in my gut. But then (rather than giving me what I want), he’s grabbing my jaw and pushing my head to the side. </p><p>“<em>This </em> is what’s wrong,” he sighs, poking at the side of my neck, gingerly. </p><p>
  <em> Oh right. That. Obviously.  </em>
</p><p>Flashes of the night before come flooding back to me - The grinding of our hips, all the humiliating little noises, and of course, his lips clamped against my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there, fervently. My body singeing with heat, I desperately try to still my thoughts (I've already had to have <em>one</em> cold shower today, and I’d really rather not have to have another. Although, being around him all day, as we are now, I’m not sure that’s really possible).</p><p>“Oh well … What do we do?” I ask, my voice strained. </p><p>Smirking mischievously, he leans down, pressing quick, open-mouthed kisses along the length of my neck. His hands sliding under my T-shirt, and cupping the small of my back, warmly. </p><p><em> Christ, I swear he’s a fucking mind reader. </em> And while it's <em>definitely </em> not helping with the whole ‘calming down’ thing, I can’t find it within myself to care. </p><p>“What you’re going to do ...” he purrs, his voice low and whispered where his lips brush against my skin. “Is take this off.” </p><p>I swallow audibly, my throat pinched with tension. </p><p>“Okay,” I breathe. </p><p>Snatching his hands away from me, he steps backwards, chuckling quietly at the sight of me, flustered before him. </p><p>“So easy to rile up, Snow,” he taunts, cradling my face between his palms. Despite myself, I nuzzle against him slightly. “I’ll go and get you something else to wear - Something that will cover it. Just one second.”</p><p> </p><p>Pulling my shirt off, I wait on his bed, tracing the rolls of my stomach, bored, as he rummages through his drawers. I don’t know if Baz’s clothes will fit me, to be honest (As while he <em>is, annoyingly,</em> taller than me, he’s definitely a lot slimmer), but I suppose, even if they don't, I have any other choice. I didn’t exactly pack with a hickey in mind, although, I’m <em>definitely</em> not complaining about the unforeseen turn of events. </p><p>A moment later, I’m startled from my thoughts by him slinging something at my head, with a laugh. </p><p>“Earth to Snow,” he sing-songs. “What on <em> earth </em> are you thinking about? You look all glazed over?”</p><p>“Nothing important,” I say, beaming over at him.</p><p>Once again, he mirrors me, and my heart squeezes at the sight of him - Overwhelmingly bright, and happy, and open. Not a spike in sight. I love that - That I can make him smile, just by smiling at him, first. That I can make him like this. It's like a cute, lover's copycat (Although, I probably shouldn’t call it that).  </p><p>Slipping onto the bed besides me, he nudges his shoulder against mine. </p><p>“Stop gawping, you. Just get dressed.” </p><p>Nodding, I unfold the bundle in my hands, and groan exaggeratedly, at the sight of it - One of those god awful, trendy high-neck jumpers. <em> Grim.  </em></p><p>“Baz. You can’t <em> seriously </em> expect me to wear <em> this?” </em> I whinge. </p><p><em>“Why not?</em> It’s a <em>turtleneck,</em> Snow, not a bloody gimp suit!”</p><p>Spluttering out an embarrassed cough, I kick my heel against his ankle, lightly. </p><p>“Yeah, I realised <em> that. </em> But … I’ll look like an idiot. Don’t you have <em> anything </em> else?”</p><p>Rolling his eyes, he lulls his head to the side, grimacing. </p><p>“You -“ he says, reaching out, and sliding his hands into my hair. “- Are a fusspot.”</p><p>And then, he’s kissing me - Surging forwards, tenderly. Almost automatically, I part my lips against his, in a silent plea for more. He gives it to me, this time - Pushing against me, harder. Dropping a hand to grip at my wrist, pressing his fingers into my pulse point, firmly. </p><p>But, all too soon, he’s pulling himself backwards, again. Leaving me suspended; blinking over at him dumbly, my mouth still pursed in a frozen kiss. <em>Tease!</em> If he keeps doing that, I swear to God I’m gonna combust. </p><p>“You wait here,” he chirps, poking the tip of my nose. “I’ll go and get Your Majesty something more ... Suitable.”  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>“Stop fidgeting,” I snap, trying to knot the drawstring tighter, without accidentally choking him.</p><p>He’s got my old lacrosse hoodie pulled up high on his neck, the string pulled taut, securing the hood tight around his head - His curls squished, tragically flat against his forehead.</p><p>To be honest, he looks more than a little ridiculous (Sort of like the “Sweatshirt ear kid’ from Vine), but I keep my mouth shut. It would be overly harsh to mock him right now, considering that, technically, all of this is my fault (Although <em> really </em> it’s his … The fit idiot). </p><p>“I’m too hot, though,” he grouses, his lips pouting outwards. The urge to just lean down and kiss him swells within me, but, summoning a truly <em> heroic </em> level of self-control, I manage to restrain myself (Just about). While I’m not typically one for selflessness, we’ve already kept Dev waiting long enough, and I <em> really </em> can’t trust myself not to get carried away - Simon’s lips are utterly all consuming. “Don’t you have <em> anything </em> less stuffy.” </p><p>“If I did, I'd give it to you, but this is <em> seriously </em> the best I can do. I’d offer you makeup, or something, but what little I have would be way too dark for you, and Daphne doesn’t wear foundation.” </p><p>“Of course,” he laughs, scornfully. “Is <em> everybody </em> in your family perfect.” </p><p>“Nope. Just me, I’m afraid,” I quip, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. </p><p>“Arrogant prat.” </p><p>“Hmmm. That’s me, alright … Look, if you <em> really </em> want to, we can stop at your house and see if you have anything better. I wouldn’t mind.” </p><p>“I don’t have anything better,” he sighs, frustrated. “I don’t normally have some fucking vampire bruising up my neck!” </p><p>I glance down at the floor, tucking my hair behind my ear, awkwardly. </p><p>“Sorry. I sort of got … carried away. I didn’t mean to do <em> that”  </em></p><p>“It’s okay,” he smiles. “I liked it, really. I would’ve stopped you if I didn’t. I <em> will </em>be getting you back later, though.” </p><p>“Is that so?” I ask, quirking a brow, in question. </p><p>“Oh <em>absolutely.</em> That … Is a<em> promise.”</em> </p><p>I school my face into unreadable boredom, and shrug. </p><p>“That’s not <em> really </em> much of a punishment, Snow. But, if it’ll make you feel better.”  </p><p>He grins over at me cheekily, leaning forwards so that our lips are barely centimetres apart. </p><p>“Suggesting I promise you properly, are you?” He drawls, teasingly. “I <em>knew</em> you were into something weird. It’s always the prim and proper ones, who are the most depraved.”</p><p>I decide not to justify that with a response (Although, for the record, that is not <em> at all </em> what I was trying to imply - <em> He’s </em> just a horned-up menace). But based off of the stupidly, devilish grin he’s currently sporting, it’s fairly apparent that my attempt at airy aloofness has failed. </p><p>“Just … Get a move on!” I command, defeated.<em> “Before, </em> I change my mind, and leave you here with the wraiths.”</p><p>‘Wraiths?” he laughs. “What’s a wraith?” </p><p>‘You don’t even want to know.” I warn, smiling slyly, and moving to lean against the door frame. </p><p>At that, he looks positively stricken - His throat bobbing nervously, and his eyes blowing as wide as saucers.</p><p>Without a word, he jumps off of the bed, hurrying over to me, and shoving me out of the room. </p><p>And then, we were off. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>At the gate, Simon hesitates, knotting his arms, anxiously. </p><p>Pulling him towards me, I shuffle us off to the side, behind a bush, and away from prying eyes. </p><p>“Is everything okay? If you want to go, you still can. You seem really … Uncomfortable.”</p><p>He rolls his head up towards the sky, grumbling. </p><p>“I don’t want to <em>go,</em> it’s just … Well, it looks, like, proper posh in there,” he winces. “Everyone will know that I don’t belong. And … Don’t I need, like, a ticket to get in, or something."</p><p>“I have a guest credit, so you’re fine. And don’t talk like that. You belong here just as much as everybody else. In fact,<em> really, </em> you’re better off than the rest of them - <em> You </em> haven’t been scammed into paying an <em> absurd </em> amount of money for what is, in reality, a couple of tennis courts and a shitty, overpriced bar. It’s all vanity, and no substance.”</p><p>He giggles, then, and my heart surges with feeling - Sparkling and light. </p><p>“The perfect place for you then.”</p><p>“Oh<em> ha ha. </em> Come on you,” I mumble, lifting his hand upwards, and pressing a quick kiss to the mole on his knuckle (I noticed it last night, and I’ve been <em>dying</em> to get my hands on it ever since). “Lets go and see what my <em> idiot </em>cousin has to say for himself.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Go on then, spit it out,” I call, stomping over to the two of them (Because <em> of course </em> he brought Niall with him); Simon trailing behind me, quietly. ‘What is <em> so </em> important, that you had to drag me all the way down here?” </p><p>Niall drops his racket, and turns to Dev with a guilty look spread across his face. <em>Oh, f</em><em>ucking hell! </em></p><p>Leaping over the net, Dev smiles. </p><p>“My <em> favourite </em> cousin! Fancy seeing you here. Me and Niall were <em> just </em> about to call you.” </p><p>I glower, bitterly unimpressed.</p><p>“I’m sure you were.”</p><p>Barking out a laugh, he skips over to Simon and claps him over the shoulders. </p><p>“And<em> this </em> … Must be the famous Simon Snow. How are you today, good sir?”</p><p>Simon goggles over at me, gobsmacked.</p><p>“He’s fine. Don’t be annoying.” I groan.</p><p>“Did you hear that, Niall?” he gasps, his voice dripping with faux outrage. “Baz thinks I’m annoying.” </p><p>“Oh dear, my darling Dev,” he says, laughter pushing into each word. Rushing over, dramatically, and smoothing a hand over his back. “How <em> cruel. </em> You’re mildly infuriating, at worst!”</p><p>
  <em> Pricks. Complete and utter pricks, the both of them.  </em>
</p><p>“Just … Why am I here?” </p><p>“Oh. <em> That,” </em> Dev snorts. <em> “ </em>We thought you might wanna play a couple of games with us?”</p><p>I cough out a mirthless snicker.</p><p>“You dragged us both <em> all the way out here, </em> to ask if I wanted to play fucking Tennis. Why couldn't you just do that over text?  I was <em> busy,” </em> I spit. “I <em> told </em> you that I was busy!”</p><p>“Alright, alright. Chill out, mate,” he sings, throwing his hands up in a false surrender. “I’ll be honest with you … Niall just <em> really </em> wanted to meet Snow. I <em> did try </em> to tell him, but he just <em> wouldn’t </em>listen. What can I say?” </p><p>Niall takes a swing at him, punching his arm, with a mumbled “Asshole”. </p><p>“That just <em> isn’t </em> true,” he protests.<em>“Dev </em> wanted to meet Snow, not me. Well … I did too. But getting you down here was <em> completely his </em> idea!”</p><p>Dev spins his head around, sticking his tongue out, childishly. </p><p>“Snitch.”</p><p>“If you don’t wanna get snitched on, don’t try and blame me for your dumbass ideas then, <em> genius.”  </em></p><p>“Look you two,” I shout, rapidly approaching the end of my tether. “I hate to interrupt your little tiff, but me and Simon are going to go.”</p><p>“Hey, hey, no! Come on … Just one game! You’ve come all this way!”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks to you!”</p><p>“Yes. Exactly,” he chirps, apparently missing the point <em>entirely.</em> <em> “Come on! </em> I’m sure <em> Simon </em> wants to stay. Don’t hide your boyfriend away from us Baz, that’s just selfish!”</p><p>I scoff, my stomach stooping, sickeningly. </p><p>“He’s not my -“ The words scraping at my throat, uncomfortably, I cut myself off. Silence blanketing the air around us. </p><p>While it isn't <em>technically</em> a lie, it definitely <em>feels</em> wrong to deny it so vehemently in front of him, with no real reason to do so. That would just be a betrayal of ... Whatever we are. </p><p>“Not your what, Basilton?” He goads.</p><p><em> Fucking Dev </em> - The cheeky, little <em> bastard. </em> I’m <em> definitely </em> going to make him pay for this, one day. One day, <em>soon. </em></p><p>I fire him a venomous glare, as a warning.</p><p>Turning back towards Simon, I shoot him a questioning look - His cheeks painted a violent shade of red, and his hands busy twiddling with the frayed edge of the drawstring. He looks painfully sweet like this, all flushed and flustered, and the thought of hiding him away is becoming <em>increasingly</em> appealing (They really don't deserve the privilege of him).  </p><p>Meeting my gaze with a nervous half-smile, he mutters out a quiet “Sure”. </p><p>“One game,” I grit, prodding my finger against his chest. “Then me and Simon are <em> going. </em> No arguments! … And stop fucking laughing, Niall! Or I swear to <em> God, </em> I will <em> end both </em> of you!” </p><p>
  <em> Stupid, bumbling, ridiculous morons.  </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>Baz is squatting on the floor in front of me, rummaging through a box in search of a spare racket, and I <em>really am</em> trying my best to do the gentlemanly thing and not stare, but I’m failing miserably. </p><p>“They seemed nice,” I cough, attempting to ease the awkward silence, weighing us down. </p><p>He hasn’t spoken to me much at all since we’ve gotten here - And now he’s stuck in a strange, pensive silence. The deep, worried groove in his brow, back in full force. </p><p>I think he’s embarrassed, but he <em>really</em> has no need to be. It was pretty funny watching them winding him up. And the whole … Not denying that I was his boyfriend, thing. Well … That didn't upset me. Not at all. On the contrary, it unleashed a flutter of hopeful butterflies within me, my mind humming, happily with the thought of it. <em>Him and Me. For real. Officially.</em> </p><p>
  <em> Definitely nothing to get all mopey about.  </em>
</p><p>“Liar,” he tuts.</p><p>“Am not! They <em>do</em> seem nice. A little annoying, maybe. But, still nice. I mean … It’s cool, meeting your friends, and stuff.”</p><p>“Hmmm,” he hums. </p><p>I don’t really know what that’s supposed to mean, so I just decide to change the topic (We can talk about it properly later, if he wants). </p><p>“I’ve never actually played Tennis before.”</p><p><em> That </em> gains his attention - Lifting his head up, he shifts his attention over to me, fully, his eyes <em> finally </em> meeting mine. </p><p>“Never?” he asks, amused. </p><p>“Never.” </p><p>Standing, he shuffles behind me, snaking his arms around my waist, and resting his chin against the back of my shoulder. </p><p>“Don’t worry, Snow, I’ll teach you, sometime,” he breathes, smooching a kiss, behind my ear (I’m pretty sure there’s a mole there. He’s kissed it <em> at least </em> four times since yesterday). “But for now, I’m perfectly capable of beating the two of them alone, so <em>you</em> can just stand there looking pretty. I’ll handle it.””</p><p><em> “Aw </em>you think I’m pretty?” I coo, jokingly. </p><p>“Oh the prettiest.”</p><p>Spinning around in his arms, I turn to face him again, rolling onto my tiptoes and kissing him- Locking my hands behind his neck, and holding him close. Humming encouragingly, his lips pull taut as he smiles against me. And while it may be more difficult to kiss him like this, it's heart-wrenchingly adorable, so I don't complain. </p><p>Tilting backwards, I beam down at him, shifting to litter kisses across his face - Starting at his forehead, moving down to the ever so slightly crooked tip of his nose, all over his cheeks, along the sharp edges of his jaw, and finally, a single kiss to the crest of his chin. Everywhere I can reach receives a little bit of love. He giggles, warbly and breathless, against my movements - And the sound makes my stomach soar. </p><p>“Come on then,” I whisper, tracing a finger up his chest, reverently. “Let’s go.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>True to his word, Baz is doing a <em>perfectly</em> adequate job of handling the two of them, alone. </p><p>I have been <em> trying </em> my best to help him too, obviously - Thwacking the ball, whenever he isn’t <em> quite </em> quick enough to reach it for himself. But every time I do, he just tells me off for holding the racket like a frying pan, and starts lecturing me about how I was supposed to hit it <em> across </em> the net (Not just upwards, into the sky). So … I’m not sure how much of a help I really am. </p><p>I’m not even entirely sure how much we are winning by, as I really don’t understand the scoring system (I mean, what the actual fuck is a 'love' supposed to be). But, if the increasingly aggravated shade of Dev’s face is anything to go by, I’d say guess quite a lot.</p><p> </p><p>With a final pelt of the ball, straight into the corner of Niall’s box, Dev screeches, launching his racket into the net, in a strop (So I assume we’ve won).</p><p>Niall claps a hand over his mouth, in a failed attempt to hold in his laughter, as Baz runs over to me, grinning impossibly wide. Clapping our hands in a victorious high-five, he weaves them together and spins, sprinting onto the other side of the net - Towing me behind him, in a daze. </p><p>“We are the champions, my friends,” he bellows.  </p><p>It's appallingly childish, and not very sportsmanlike, but I don't care. Laughing wildly, I join in - Grinning from ear to ear.  </p><p>“And we’ll keep on fighting till the end. We are the champions. We are the champions. No time for <em> losers!”  </em></p><p>Letting go of my hand, Baz turns to me (A wicked glint sparkling, excitedly, in his eyes), and takes off. Running, and leaping forwards onto Dev’s back - Sending him stumbling, precariously. </p><p>“Hey Dev!” he titters, clinging onto his shoulders, tightly. ‘That’s you!”</p><p>‘Piss off,” he grumbles, shaking Baz off of his back. “You only won because the sun was in my eyes!”</p><p>“Dev, Dev, Dev,” Baz sighs, shaking his head. “I could play you a <em> hundred </em> times over, in <em> perfect </em> conditions, and you <em> still </em> wouldn’t be able to beat me. Don’t even <em> pretend! </em> … You’re only making yourself look more foolish, in front of Simon. And you <em> know </em> what your mother’s always saying - 'First impressions matter, Devlin! We wouldn't want you letting down the family name.' <em>How disappointed she would be.”</em></p><p>Rolling his eyes with a gruff, he trudges over to the net, to retrieve his racket. </p><p>“There, there,” Baz sings, cheerily. “Come on, I’ll make it up to you. How does lunch on me sound?”</p><p>Intrigued, his ears prick up at the mention of food (As do mine). </p><p>“Go on then, Basilton," he drones. "If you <em> insist </em> on showing off in front of your … Whatever he is, then I won’t turn down a free meal.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Picking at my burger, dryly, I try and refocus my attention on what Niall is saying (something about the latest Star Wars movie, as far as I can gather), but it’s hopeless. I'm done. </p><p>Everything is too hot. And the food is complete shit (The chips totally sodden with vinegar, and the burger, filled with some weird, gooey cheese that just tastes of charcoal). But worst of all, Baz has got his thigh pressed against my mine, under the table. And while I <em>have</em> splayed my hand out over his knee, it’s not enough. It’s nowhere near enough. And it's driving me up the wall. </p><p>I want less of everything else, and more of him. But I can’t have it - So I just sit, sulking to myself, silently. </p><p> </p><p>Knocking his knee against mine, delicately, Baz rips me from my thoughts. <em>Are you okay? </em>He mouths. </p><p>I nod my head, smiling weakly, but he scrunches up his face, clearly unconvinced. Stuck, he squeezes a hand against my thigh, reassuringly. </p><p>
  <em> Sorry. Soon.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Finally fed up with the heat, I yank the hoodie off, over my head - Throwing it down onto the table, with a huff. Baz flusters - Scuttling to retrieve the hoody, and tapping against his own neck, in warning. </p><p>Looking over at him, I realize that it was probably not my most well thought out plan (Really, I should’ve just tried drinking some cool water, or something, first). But expecting me to sit here in a hoodie, with the summer sun pelting down on me, wasn’t exactly Baz’s brightest idea, either. So he can’t really talk.  </p><p>And while I<em> really</em> would rather spare Baz his blushes, Dev and Niall have been exchanging knowing, sideways glances all morning - So I figure that, there really is no reason to keep hiding it from them. I mean, I’d rather face a little mockery over a hickey, than collapse due to heat exhaustion. Which I’m sure he’ll understand. </p><p>“Holy shit,” Dev cackles, smacking his hand against the table with a loud clatter. “Niall! Niall! Are you <em> seeing </em>this? Oh my God! Take a picture!”</p><p>“Already am,” he laughs, his eyes twinkling gleefully (He has strange eyes - Bright blue, with a slight sliver of murky brown around his pupil. I think they might be coloured contacts, to be honest, but I don’t think he’d appreciate my asking. Maybe I’ll ask Baz later). <em> “This </em> is one for the grandkids.”</p><p>Yanking Niall's hand towards him, Dev pinches the screen, zooming in on the photograph.</p><p><em> “Jesus Christ, Baz! </em> What in the <em> holy hell </em> have you been <em> doing </em> to the poor boy? What are you … A fucking Black Widow? I mean … I know that you’re <em> severely </em> inexperienced, but I thought you’d <em> at least </em> understand that you’re not supposed to try and <em> eat </em> your boyfriend.” </p><p>Flashing me a look, he groans, pitifully. Burying his eyes in the heel of his palms - His face noticeably flushed. </p><p>“Okay. <em> Firstly, </em> Black Widows only eat their mates <em> sometimes, </em> so that comparison is just stupid. They don’t deserve the reputation they have,” he argues. For somebody so <em>clearly</em> humiliated, he manages to hide it well - His tone remaining firm and unwavering. “And <em> secondly, </em> I didn’t see him complaining.” </p><p>He nods over at me, then, his face unbearably smug. </p><p>Dev and Niall stare over at me, wide-eyed and grinning. And, I shrug, heat prickling against my skin, insistently. I mean … He’s not <em> wrong. </em>So I'm not sure <em>what</em> I'm supposed to say. </p><p>Baz thunks his knee against mine, again, a hint smile playing on his lips, as he does. <em> Good. Not mad then.  </em></p><p>“So … You two are like -“ Niall starts.</p><p>I cut him off with a shrug, not overly keen of the idea of discussing the status of our relationship, in front of them. </p><p>Glancing over at me, Baz smirks, crookedly, his leg pressing closer to mine. </p><p>“Anyway …” he drawls. “As much as I have <em> adored </em> spending some quality time with my two <em> favourite </em> imbeciles, we really best be off now. You know … People to see, places to be - All of that crap. </p><p>“Necks to destroy,” Dev chimes. </p><p>With a flick of his wrist, Baz surrenders to it - There really is no point arguing. </p><p>“Yes. Goodbye you two,” he says, standing up, suddenly, his chair scraping noisily against the floor.</p><p>Pleased, I quickly follow suit - Shovelling a final handful of chips into my mouth, and muffling out a quick a “Bye”. </p><p> </p><p>Pausing and looking down at them, I can’t help but smile. </p><p>As far as meeting friends go, it’s as successful of an introduction as I could’ve hoped for (I mean, it definitely went a lot better than my meeting his father, at least). And, without wanting to sound childishly hopeful, I could see us being friends in the future.</p><p>
  <em> If Baz wants us to have a future, that is ... </em>
</p><p>Turning towards him, he lifts his brow - His hair falling in a perfect, lazy wave against his forehead, and a waiting look adorning his face. I gulp, nervously, completely overcome. </p><p>
  <em> I hope he does. I really, really hope he does. </em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Baz</strong> </span>
</p><p>Surveying the area, I brush my hand up against Snow’s - My touch present and purposeful. </p><p>He’s been alarmingly quiet the whole walk, and I’m starting to get jittery. Normally, I couldn’t get him to stop blabbering, if I <em>paid</em> him. So the strange, thoughtful silence is unnervingly jarring. </p><p>I <em>knew</em> it was a mistake to suggest that he come along, but I was just so caught up in my lovesick desperation to have him stay, that I forgot myself. <em> And now I’ve gone and blown it! </em> I mean, what sort of <em> freak, </em> introduces their … Whatever Snow is, to their two closest friends, the <em> day </em> after their first kiss. Talk about coming on strong - I couldn’t have made myself look more cringely keen, if I had tried! It’s no wonder he’s quiet, really. He’s probably just worrying that I’m going to take him home and skin him alive, or something <em>demented</em> like that, now! </p><p>
  <em> I’m such a bloody idiot.  </em>
</p><p>
  <span class="u">  </span>
</p><p>Sucking in a cooling breath, I speak, my voice falling in a hushed tremor: </p><p>“Is everything alright?” </p><p>Turning to me, our eyes meet, and I’m lost. Backlit by sunlight, his curls glow a thousand rich shades of bronze and gold. And it’s an absurd idea, really, that an earthly being should get to look so angelic. And yet, here he is - Divinely shining and resplendent, before my very own eyes. </p><p>“Do you wanna meet my friends?” He blurts, halting on the spot. </p><p>“Right now?” I laugh, </p><p>“Oh no,” he blushes. “I was sort of hoping we could just go back to your bedroom, right now. I just meant, like … Soon. Or not? I don’t know. I just thought that, at least that way it would be fair. You know … Cause I met yours, so - I don’t know it’s probably a stupid idea, just forget it.”</p><p>Nudging his chin upwards, I peck a chaste kiss to his forehead.</p><p>“It’s not a stupid idea. I think that I'd like that, actually. And as you say … It’s <em>only</em> fair." </p><p>“Yeah,” he breathes, clearly relieved. "Yeah. That’s what I thought. Okay ... Brilliant. You can then … Soon.”</p><p>“Brilliant,” I echo, the sappy glee plain in my voice. “Soon.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u"> <strong>Simon</strong> </span>
</p><p>Jabbing a finger into the tight, ticklish curve of his hip, I snatch his attention away from the screen (We’re watching Titanic, because Baz said it was a ‘romantic classic’, but I don’t really know why. It’s mostly just depressing, to be honest. And I’d really rather be doing more<em> entertaining </em> things with him, right now). </p><p>“What are you after?’ He asks, peering behind his shoulder. </p><p>Tugging him towards me, I roll him underneath me, settling myself over him, on the bed. </p><p>“You." </p><p>Smiling demurely, he bites down on his bottom lip, softly. </p><p>“You <em> already </em> have <em>me."</em></p><p>“I know,” I sing, leaning down, and kissing him again. Pouring <em>everything</em> I have into it - The bolts of mad energy humming under my skin, the treacly warmth swelling in my heart, the joy sparking in my head. Every last drop. All of it, just for him. All of it, <em> because </em> of him. “But actually, I meant that … I’ve been thinking, some more -“</p><p>“Rare.”</p><p>“Shut it, wanker!” I scold, “I’m <em> trying </em> to be serious.”</p><p>His eyes softening, he mimics zipping his mouth shut, and gestures for me to continue, with a flourish. </p><p>With him staring up at me expectantly, I swallow against the thorned knot in my throat, newly nervous. </p><p>“It’s just … I mean … Do you fancy giving this enough go?” I splutter, blood pounding, angrily, within my ears.</p><p><em> Shit. </em> I didn’t mean to say it like <em> that. That </em> was <em> supposed </em> to be the joke that I made at the <em> end - After </em> all the serious, soppy shit. Not <em>before.</em> I mean … <em> For fuck’s sakes! </em> I <em> planned </em> all of this out, <em>perfectly,</em> in the mirror this morning, and I’ve <em> still </em>managed to mess it up! <em>What a fucking mess. </em></p><p>Lifting his brow, he smirks up at me, cheekily. </p><p>“Giving <em> what </em> another go? … You know, vagueness gets you nowhere, Snow. Use your words.”</p><p>Whining, I hide my face away, in his pillow. </p><p>He <em> does </em> know what I mean, of course. But <em>clearly</em> he's chosen to be as <em>difficult</em> as possible. <em>The twat. </em></p><p>“Breaking up with you was the worst decision I’ve ever made.”</p><p><em>“You</em> made?” He asks, outraged. “No, no, no. <em>I</em> broke up with <em>you,</em> <em>not </em>the other way around! As I recall, you rather deserved it, too - You were a terrible boyfriend.”</p><p>“Really?” I tease, brushing my nose against his. </p><p>Gulping audibly, his eyes flutter shut, as he nods, wordlessly.</p><p>Thrillingly smug, I bite down against his lower lip, tugging it outwards, slightly. Admittedly, it's a pretty weird thing to do to - Biting your maybe-boyfriend. But the tightening of his grip against my arms, and the shaky gasp he let's out, are definitely reassuring signs (So I don't think he minds, that much).</p><p>“You’re evil,” he whispers. </p><p>Humming, I shimmy downwards, pressing against him, and sucking a trail of pinching kisses along his neck. They're not forceful enough to bruise, just yet - Although, I do <em>fully</em> intend on getting my revenge, in that way, later. </p><p>Stopping, I grin down at him - His face pulled into a frown, and his usually pristine hair laying, delicately mussed against the pillowcase. </p><p><em>“What</em> are you doing?” He complains. </p><p>“Come on, Baz,” I whine, poking at his cheeks. <em>"This</em> is getting us nowhere.” </p><p>“I beg to differ.” </p><p>Throwing my head back, I scoff, jokingly. </p><p>“Just … How do you feel about giving me another chance? Another chance to be your <em> terrible </em> boyfriend all over again.” </p><p>He pauses, scrubbing at his chin in a mock thoughtfulness. Stilling - I stare, breathless. </p><p>And then, something wicked flashes over his eyes, and he jumps me. Tackling me onto the mattress, and pinning his weight down, onto my hips. </p><p>“Go on then, Simon,” he purrs, his breath puffing cool against my lips. “I reckon you’ve earned another chance.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading :) I hope you enjoyed!<br/>My Tumblr: <a href="https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/">Link text</a><br/></p></blockquote></div></div>
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